by Nancy Radke
But spring runoff had made the rivers treacherous, and we no longer had places marked where it was relatively safe to cross.
We rode to the edge of one river, and stopped at the water’s edge.
“That’s deep and swift, Pa. Shouldn’t we look for a better place?”
“This is where I crossed coming out. The footing is pretty good. The water is a lot higher, but I was walking then. The horses should handle it all right. Make sure you keep your ammunition dry.”
The horse he was riding, Pride, had long legs, and managed to walk across, but my horse, Rosie, had shorter legs, and lost her footing. The current quickly swept us downstream.
“Pa!”
“Coming!” He dropped the mule’s lead rope and turned Pride downstream, riding to Rosie and me. He grabbed Rosie’s halter, which she wore under her bridle, and hung on while Pride took us both towards the shore.
It was a steep bank, and we just barely got out.
“Oh, no!” Pa shouted, and I turned to see why.
Our mule had not continued on to the other side, but had turned and tried to follow Pride down the river. She was struggling with the heavy pack she was carrying, as the water forced her into the rapids just below us.
“No, Pa!” I shouted, for I could see he was about to put Pride back in the water. The rapids were too close, too strong, and they swept the mule away in seconds. Pa would have been swept away, also.
“Stay there,” he told me, and put Pride to a lope as he paralleled the river, trying to see if the mule would make it. The rocks were enormous, and I figured a person in a canoe would have a tough time running those rapids, much less a mule with a bulky pack. We had loaded up with supplies at Fort Benton. Now these were all gone down the river.
About an hour later, Pa rode back. I could tell it was bad news by the look on his face.
“No sign of her. The river drops fast, and the current is strong. It’s deceptive. It looks milder than it is. Once she stumbled, the force of the water against the pack just knocked her over.”
I had grown fond of that mule. She was friendly, and so sure-footed, I had thought I’d end up riding her. The swiftness of her loss was hard to take. Also, we had almost all our food and spare clothes in her pack. Because there was always the danger of losing everything, we carried certain items, like flint fire starters, on our persons, and other essentials in our saddlebags. We each had a bedroll and rifle. Pa carried the axe on Pride, and I had a short shovel on Rosie.
So it was tragic to lose our mule, but not so much that it threatened our lives.
We rode on for the rest of that day, following that river upstream, then camped at the point we had to leave it.
We didn’t camp right on the river, but instead on a tiny stream that flowed into it, where there was less chance of being spotted by passing Indians.
Pa pointed out that the rivers on this side of the Rocky Mountains all flowed south and east. “When we cross the Rockies they will generally flow west. You can never get entirely lost if you follow a stream down. It will eventually lead you to people. People only live where there is a water source.”
I nodded. People. Out here it could also include Indians.
“I’ll hunt early tomorrow morning when the animals come out,” he added. “A deer or antelope would give us enough fresh meat to travel a week. If we carry more, we’d have to smoke it. Or cook it.”
All our flour had been on the mule, as well as our salt. We had some jerky in our saddlebags, and some dried beans, but Pa said those were for emergencies only, to keep from starving to death.
This was not an emergency. He brought back an antelope across his saddle, a tiny little thing that looked like the grazing had been hard to find that winter.
I built the fire back up while he cut off some meat. We had us a meal totally of roasted meat, which was filling and very strengthening.
Pa left extra skin on the haunches, so he could wrap them up, then we each took one on our horse.
“We’re going to have to ride careful,” he said. “I saw bear tracks. Bears are like people. They eat both plants and animals. They’re starting to wake up and come out of hibernation. They’re hungry and extremely dangerous this time of year. Keep your gun ready. Take it out of the scabbard.”
“Wouldn’t you have time to get it out, Pa?” I asked.
“No. They can charge faster than a horse can run. You don’t want to be in bear country without a gun in your hand.”
He mounted, pulled out his rifle, and I did the same. We rode the next five days, eating our fill of meat. Then one night we had to make a dry camp, without water. We finished up the meat and it had some moisture in it, but we still were thirsty.
“I’ll hunt us some food tomorrow,” Pa said. “You stay hidden. This camp is off the trail, hard to spot. Keep your fire low. Don’t drink all the water in your canteen, just sip it. As soon as I get back, we’ll go get water. I know where there’s a spring about a day’s ride from here.”
“Shouldn’t we go there first, Pa?”
“No. Game is plenty. It shouldn’t take me long to get something. I figure Indians will know where that spring is. We’ll have to go in careful like. I don’t want you camped anywhere near it.”
The next morning he left, just at sunup. “See you shortly,” he said. “Stay hidden. I should be back before noon.”
Noon came and went, then evening. I kept the fire low and my gun ready. Sometime during the night I fell asleep.
I woke up cold. The fire had gone out and my one blanket wasn’t warm enough to keep the freezing weather from chilling me to the bone.
There was dew on every blade of grass, and I put one in my mouth, found moisture there, so did it again and again, putting the blades in my mouth as fast as I could, because the sun was coming up and would quickly dry it out. Rosie was grazing on the wet grass, getting moisture also.
I found some grasses wet enough, I could squeeze a few drops into my canteen, but directly into my mouth worked best.
As I gathered water, I worried. What had happened to Pa?
He’d done this once before on the trip, going longer than he thought it would take. That time a buffalo herd had come between us and he had to wait for it to pass. It took almost two days.
The herds were massive, with thousands of animals in each herd. And the buffalo themselves were massive, with heads around two feet across between their horns.
I hadn’t seen any buffalo lately, but I knew they were in the area by the spoor they left behind. Buffalo chips. They made good fuel when there wasn’t anything else to burn. So I “drank” my grass until it got dry. Then twice during the day, I took a drink out of my canteen.
Pa had showed me many of the plants the Indians used, and I picked those I found and laid them on rocks near the fire. When they got dry, I put them in my poke, wrapping each type in paper before placing it carefully in the bag.
That night, I slept warmer, letting the fire die down to coals, then putting enough dirt over them so that I could sleep on top and still get some warmth.
I was wide awake come sunup.
No sign of Pa. He was a big man, a strong man, astride a big horse. He was an excellent shot and had taught me how to ride and shoot, making sure I had those skills before we started out to Oregon.
If I went out looking for him, I could easily miss him, for one thing I wasn’t very good at was tracking people. He expected me to be here, and would come back if at all possible. He knew where the spring was, but I didn’t.
How long should I wait?
I had always prayed at night, but now my constant thoughts were prayers. Prayers for Pa’s safety. Prayers for direction if he didn’t show up.
I would have to leave tomorrow to find water. My canteen was empty and the dew on the grass wasn’t enough to keep me alive.
The third night, I heard a sound. Then another.
Pa said that Indians didn’t like to travel at night, but that now and then some did,
so you couldn’t count on it.
CHAPTER TWO
On the frontier, a woman needed to be able to defend herself, and a gun made her as strong as any man. I was dressed like a man, but that wouldn’t fool anyone for long.
I heard the sound again, closer this time, a faint crack like a stick had been stepped on. I didn’t think an Indian would step on a stick. Maybe a white man would. Or an animal.
I grabbed my rifle and moved into my hiding place. It wasn’t much, only a heavy pile of brush, but by putting a dark blanket over me to hide my form, Pa had said I was hard to see. I pulled the blanket over and left the rifle sticking out.
Whatever I heard was coming into camp, moving slow, hesitant-like.
I was already thirsty, but fear made my mouth drier.
A horse walked in, barely moving. Pa’s horse, Pride. A man slumped in the saddle.
Not Pa.
This man was thinner, maybe even taller. He had blood all over him.
Pride lifted his head, looked around, and walked straight up to me.
I shucked off the blanket, but kept my rifle ready as I stepped clear of my hidey-hole. Where was Pa?
Some of the blood was Pride’s. He had several scratch marks on him, deep and still weeping blood.
Cougar? Or bear. By the width of the scratch marks it was probably a bear, and a big one.
I looked the rider over. He had tried to bandage himself, tearing off parts of a shirt to wrap around the deeper wounds.
His eyes were closed. I doubt if he knew where he was.
Pa’s canteen was on the saddle and I lifted it up. Empty.
If I got the man out of the saddle, he would die and so would I. We had to have water, both of us.
I couldn’t wait for Pa any longer. He could be alive or dead. Most likely dead, although the man may have come for help for him.
I quickly saddled Rosie, put out the fire, gathered my few things and swung on. As I reached for Pride’s reins, I saw the stranger’s eyes open.
“My Pa? The man who rode this horse. Is he alive?”
He shook his head, a small movement, but one I’d expected after waiting so long for his return. “Buried him,” he said. His voice was just a whisper.
“I have no water,” I told him. “We have to find some.”
“Northeast. Small crick. One day.”
It was the opposite direction my father had taken. I would be riding away from him.
I took Pride’s reins and rode northeast. If we lived, I would get the stranger to return and show me his grave.
It was early spring, the snow still deep in shady spots on the high mountain slopes. I could see them, but they were a long way off. Pa had headed out before the wagon trains got started, so he’d have a better choice of land when we arrived. He had gone trapping in the western lands while he was around my age, still in his teens, and the high country called to him. He spent seven years there, learning its ways, before he met Ma on one of his trips back to civilization. They married and started a small store in Missouri. He wanted to move west, but then I was born, and Ma talked him out of it.
When Ma’s team ran away and flipped the buckboard, killing her, I had just turned sixteen.
That winter the store failed and I could see Pa failing. He kept looking at me with haunted eyes. He’d never been much of a storekeeper, and now didn’t even go out of his way to make a sale. His heart wasn’t in it, and neither was mine.
Now as I was growing up, he had told me stories about fur trapping and all the adventures he’d had, so to keep him going, I asked him to tell me about it again. It brought the life back to him, so when he decided to go west, I said I was going, too.
He sold the store to a young man who had tried to court me. I think the man thought I would come along with the store, but not me. I’d inherited some of my Pa’s wandering blood, and I couldn’t leave soon enough. Ma had loved that store, but it only brought back unwanted memories to both of us.
Out here, riding with my Pa, I had found the same calling from the land that he’d described to me. It was wild, beautiful, and magnificent, from its majestic mountains to its huge herds of buffalo.
I kept Rosie walking at a steady pace, into the night, and found the stream just before daybreak. How that stranger managed to stay on, I don’t know, but he was still there when we got to water.
It wasn’t a good stopping place, so I took the canteens and filled them, getting a drink as I did so. I handed one up to the stranger. At my touch he opened his eyes again, saw what I had, and tried to lift his hand.
He wasn’t making it. He could only raise it two inches. I remounted, put Rosie next to Pride, and tipped the water into his mouth. Slowly.
He drank it all, what we didn’t spill, and then all of the second canteen.
“Don’t get off yet. We have to find a better place to stop. There’s no defense here.”
He lifted his head and for the first time looked around. There was enough early morning light for him to see.
“Upstream. An overhang.”
I refilled the canteens, let the horses get another drink, rode back and forth across the stream a few times, then took both horses straight into the stream before turning up. Pa had taught me how to cover my tracks. This wasn’t very good if anyone came along who knew how to track, but I figured it might slow them down.
I used that streambed for a trail for over a mile, even when the going was difficult. It was rocky, so shouldn’t leave too much evidence of our passing. Then a second stream joined it.
“Right.”
I looked back at the stranger. His finger pointed right, so I headed up that stream. It was smaller and harder to keep the horses in, but then, suddenly, there was no need, as we came around a corner and I saw the overhang he had mentioned.
I looked back. He was swaying.
“Don’t let go now,” I said, loud enough that he straightened himself up. I didn’t want him falling into the water. I wouldn’t be able to pull him out. Actually, if I tied a rope around him, Pride could.
But that would reopen his wounds.
We made it to the overhang. I could see evidence of an old campfire.
I jumped off Rosie, on the wrong side, for that gent was starting to come off sideways. I caught his arm as he tumbled, keeping his head and shoulders from hitting the ground as he landed on top of me.
He was a big man. I crawled out from under and let him lay where he had fallen. I unsaddled the horses and staked them out on some nearby grass. Then I set about making up a bed for the man using dry grass as a base and a blanket on top.
He was out cold, so I put Pa’s blanket next to him, rolled him over onto it, pulled him slowly over to the grassy bed, then rolled him onto that.
When our pack mule was lost, we still had our own ammo, and guns, canteens, a knife and rope. Flint to start a fire. Fish hooks and material for traps. Two smalls pot to cook in.
I had the items from both Pa’s saddlebags and my own now. Plenty of things, including dried meat we’d brought from the store.
Since he didn’t have a son, he’d taught his daughter how to fish, hunt, and set a trap. I hadn’t had to do any of those things on the trip so far, but now I got my cords and strings and set out three traps before coming inside again. Those rabbit trails looked promising.
The stranger was awake and I took him a canteen and gave him another drink.
“Bear. It were a bear. A big one. He…”
“Tell me after you’ve rested more. I’m Mahala Richards. What’s your name?”
“Luke. Luke Trahern.”
“Howdy, Mr. Trahern.”
“Luke.”
“Well, Mr. Luke, you go about getting well. I’ll see if I can keep us alive in the meantime.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
I stood up, went outside and started to rustle up some firewood. There weren’t many trees in that part of the country, we were still in the dry area they called
the Great American Desert. We’d reached the fringe, but water and fuel was still scarce. There was quite a bit of brush near this creek, and I knew how to make a small fire. I wanted to make a hot rabbit stew to give that stranger. Luke.
I couldn’t remember his last name. It didn’t seem to matter out here. Pa said a lot of men changed their names when they traveled west, some because they were on the wrong side of the law, others because they just wanted to. English lords and Russian adventurers, they all came through. Some stayed.
I wondered about Luke. He had that mountain twang to his voice, music to me. My mother’s mother, Mahala, was from the hills, and she talked that way.
Right now he was weaker than a newborn lamb, but as he gained strength, I’d need to rethink this situation.
As I returned to the overhang, I checked my traps. One rabbit. He must’ve been late getting back to his burrow. His loss. My gain.
I picked up a rock and gave him a quick, killing blow, untangled him, and reset the trap.
This would be enough for stew.
I built the fire, roasted the rabbit, then cut him into small chunks and put him into the boiling water. I threw in a handful of wild onions. Pa had warned me not to pick any plant that looked like an onion but didn’t smell like one, as it could be poisonous.
Pa and I had gone past a spring that had brought minerals up with it, so that it had a covering of white crystals. We broke off some pieces for both of us to carry. It replaced what salt we’d lost on the mule, so I threw a few of them into the stew.
I had found a good lookout place while I was gathering grass, so went back there while the stew cooked. I checked the land for people and animals, and saw nothing. Then I gathered grass for my bed, along with some more brush for the fire and more onions. I checked again, as I didn’t want Indians coming up on me, then went back to camp.
I kept the small fire going, building up coals under my two pots. One had the stew in it and the other water. I wanted the water if I had to clean any of Luke’s wounds. If not, it would be warm to drink.
I saw he was awake and gave him some stew water to drink. He looked like he might be able to stay awake for awhile, so I handed him the rifle and his handgun and lay down on the bed I’d made for myself. When I woke a couple of hours later, he was still awake.