Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie

by Kristiana Gregory

  I don’t like the way these boys yell and wave their rifles around. One of them accidentally shot a nine-year-old in the neck. He died quick, right where he fell. His family is so brokenhearted they have packed up and headed home to St. Louis. I’m sad for them.

  Now I keep a closer eye on Jake and Ben. If they got shot I think I’d take a whip and make those rough boys sorry they was ever born.

  Aunt June made the acquaintance of a family going to San Francisco. They have twins, a boy and a girl about six years old. It seems we’ll all start out together and somewhere in the Cheyenne country when the trail splits, some of us will head north and the others south to California.

  April 5, Monday

  Bad news swept through camp this morning like a fever, news brung by mountain men back from the West. Ma looked so upset I feared she was ill.

  “Maybe we should go home, back to Booneville,” she said to Pa. “There’s just too much danger . . . I cannot lose another one of my children, Charles.”

  Even the men are talking among themselves. This is what I heard:

  An emigrant train that left Independence last spring got trapped in a blizzard high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near California. Forty-some people froze or starved to death. To stay alive, folks ate their livestock, their pets, and then — this is the worst part — they ate parts of their dead friends! These were the Reed and Donner families and some were rescued just this February. A whole winter in the mountains without food or shelter or warm clothes — how they must have suffered!

  Word is that they took the Hastings Cutoff, but something went wrong somehow. Ma is worried because the written guide we are following is also Hastings’s. What if his maps are wrong for us, too? She is by the fire with Pa, pleading for him to turn back.

  I must be brave for Bennie and Jake, and I must be brave for Ma. But what if something happens to us and we can’t get over the mountains in time?

  April 6, Tuesday

  Pa went into town to trade our mules for oxen. A mountain man in furs named Tall Joe told us the grain that mules eat is expensive and takes up room in the wagons. Oxen are better because they eat grass along the trail and are so slow Indians won’t steal them.

  Tall Joe said, “Whatever y’folks do, hurry along as fast as y’can and don’t take shortcuts like them Donners did.” People crowd around asking advice: “What about Indians?” or “What about crossing the desert?”

  On Tall Joe’s belt he has what looks like two short brushes hanging with a string of beads. Ma was admiring the beadwork and reached out to touch them when Tall Joe said proudly, “Them is scalps, ma’am . . . Pawnee.”

  Ma’s hand flew up to her throat. Before she could gather herself, the little twins and my brother Jake leaned forward for a better look. Jake said, just as calm as if he was asking for lunch, “Did the Injuns yell when you scalped ’em, mister?”

  “No, sonny, jest when I shot ’em.”

  Then Tall Joe lay down by his fire with three of his friends. They fell asleep so quick, they looked like old rugs rolled up.

  I stared at the scalps.

  Indians?

  April 7, Wednesday

  The Anderson family is camped near us — the one with baby Eliza May and her five tree sisters. I get them mixed up, but here’s the names anyhow: Hazel, Holly, Laurel, Olive, and Cassia. Cassia is about two years old and has hair the color of cinnamon. She has taken a liking to me, I think, because she comes and sits on my lap whenever I’m holding Bennie.

  The baby, Eliza May, cries night and day with a high-pitched wail that reminds me of a steamboat whistle. When Mrs. Anderson greeted me yesterday morning after a long and loud night, I said (in a nice way, I thought) that it’s a good thing she named her baby after a steamboat because she sure did sound like one.

  Well, Mama overheard and said I must apologize for being rude. It’s not nice to make fun of people, she said, especially their habits or names.

  There’s a dance most every evening on account of there are plenty of fiddlers and foot-stompers. Ma said it’s so pleasant and folks’re so friendly, she’d be content to camp here all summer then go home. Home to Booneville.

  April 12, Monday

  Pa says any day now the grass’ll start greening and we must be ready to go. Some of the men are trying to pick leaders, but there are so many arguments about who will be boss and what the rules will be, Pa says we’ll just move on out with Tall Joe as he seems to be the most experienced.

  Our wagon is so handsome you wouldn’t guess it used to be our old farm rig. Pa and Uncle Tim added six tall hoops to hold the canvas on top. It looks as plump and white as a fresh-raised loaf of bread.

  Inside it’s neatly packed, but crowded. Our boxes of food, dishes, and pots are in back to make cooking quicker, tools and furniture are in front with our barrel of water. In the middle, between sacks of flour and beans, is a small nest where I can sit with the boys. Two lanterns hang from the hoops, along with extra coils of rope, our canteens, tin pans, and tin cups. It is noisy as a tinker’s cart.

  There’s not one spare inch for anyone to stretch out inside, so every night we must pitch tents . . . one for Ma and Pa, the other I’m to share with Bennie and Jake. Ours fits like a lean-to alongside the wagon and is cozy and out of the wind. Still, I’m bothered to sleep outside for the next six months. What about snakes? What if Indians come in the middle of the night?

  April 14, Wednesday

  I have made a friend! She is fourteen, one year older than I am, with freckles over her nose and cheeks, and beautiful green eyes. She is not as bossy as Becky, ­matter-of-fact she seems real shy, but I think I shall like her very much anyhow.

  When I told her I am scared of Indians she said, “Don’t worry, Hattie, there are probably plenty more good Indians than bad.” We have been walking to the edge of town together, to watch the blacksmith repair tools and such. My friend’s name is Pepper Lewis and she has a twin brother named Wade.

  Camped near us is a lady who is so fat she can barely walk; she must weigh 300 pounds. Her arms are as thick as my waist. It is hard not to stare, especially on account of that her husband has no legs. Either she carries him around or he rides in a little cart she pulls. I hope they don’t come over to visit with Ma because I won’t know what to say.

  April 22, Thursday

  Alcove Spring

  We are three days west of Independence, camped at Alcove Spring. Water gushes from a ledge, down ten feet into a pool where there are ferns and deep shade. How delicious the water tastes! Ma and I waited our turn with other women in the wagon train to fill our canteens and jugs. A tiny frog swam into my palm, then out again — all the while we were serenaded by crickets.

  My feet are sore and blistered, so much that it hurts to walk. It felt good to soak them in the cool pond. I want to go barefoot, but Mama says there are too many stickers and thorns. Soon enough the blisters will turn to calluses, she said.

  When we finally pulled out of Independence, leaving behind the Missoura River, the sun wasn’t up yet. Two dozen wagons were already ahead of us. Behind were hundreds of cows, horses, and sheep. I was so excited I yelled, “Hooray, hooray!” At long last we were on our way to Oregon.

  But, oh, the dust! So much dust, we could barely see the rumps of our own oxen. My eyes stung and we all were coughing.

  Pa steered to one side of the trail, but other families pulled alongside, making four abreast. I soon tired of the bumping and jolting and rattling, and sitting in a cramped space, so I gathered my skirt about my knees and jumped to the ground.

  I ran between the wagons until I saw Pepper sitting up with her pa. I hollered to her. When she leapt down her skirt flew up, showing off her leggings, white as cattails. We hurried away from the trail where it wasn’t as noisy.

  We walked for six hours and talked the whole time! She said, “Hattie,
when we get to Oregon let’s ask our fathers to build houses right next door to each other.” And I said, “Then we can share a garden. I’ll plant the lettuce and corn, you plant tomatoes.” So as we walked along, Pepper and I planned out our whole future, down to the matching lace curtains we’d make for our bedrooms, the pet kittens we’d raise, and so on.

  My, how the dust leaves a gritty taste in our mouths. It is awful. With every step our hems pick up burrs from the tall grass, dried brush scratches our ankles. Finally that first day, when the sun was directly overhead, everyone stopped. Pepper and I were so wore out, we fell back into the shade of our wagon, laughing.

  “Do we have to keep going?” we asked Pa. He just smiled at us as he carried water to the animals.

  The first night camping was a late one with singing and dancing. Pepper and I swung in a circle with Jake and the little twins, ’round and ’round.

  We are on our way! was the cry heard over and over. Even Ma joined in when folks started singing “Buffalo Gals,” but when Pa asked her to do-si-do she lifted Bennie onto her hip and turned for the wagon.

  “Time for bed,” she said. Maybe when Mama sees Oregon, she will dance.

  April 25, Sunday

  At 4 o’clock in the morning, when it is still pitch-dark, the bugle sounds. This is when breakfast fires are started and men ride out to herd in the animals, but today there was a loud discussion. Some families want to rest because of the Sabbath, for prayer and worship. But some, including Pa, say we must press on with no delays. Winter could come early and we need to be over the mountains by then. We must not make the same mistake as the Donners.

  No one says much about them, but I often think about the terrible, terrible business of eating dead friends. I’m brave, but not near brave enough to do that.

  So we must hurry along. October is six months away. Will it really take half a year to reach Oregon? I wonder.

  Finally, just before sunrise, the men agreed to travel on Sundays, but families will take turns reading Scripture and giving a prayer at each meal.

  The prairie is wide and lonesome without a house or barn in sight. We caught up to several heavy freight wagons drawn by mules. Pa said we are on the Santa Fe Trail. In a few miles the trail will split: The freighters will head southwest toward the Territory of Mexico and we shall continue northwest.

  With every mile it feels like the sky and trail are moving with us, as if we’re walking in place. Everything looks the same no matter how far we’ve come. Only when I look down at my dusty shoes and see that, yes, I am walking forward and the footprints behind are mine, can I believe that we are actually moving.

  Girls are gathering dandelions in their aprons to make a salad, also young leaves from tumbleweed plants. Aunt June said to look for wild carrots and onions from seeds dropped by last summer’s travelers. The little twins found sunflower stalks and pretended to ride them like ponies. They are such dear children, I shared some taffy with them at supper.

  April 27, Tuesday

  A few days ago we crossed the Kansas River. At first I was scared watching the horses wade in because water splashed their heads, and I worried they wouldn’t be able to breathe. But somehow they managed to swim, paddling like dogs, their necks stretched high and strong.

  Now we are at the Big Blue River, which is much wider and faster than the Kansas. The men are discussing how we should cross it, and whether we should do so now before dark. Everyone is dead tired. Most families want to spend the night on this side because there’s plenty of dry firewood and they want to rest.

  One lady yelled out, “We are wore out, mister. Can’t you see that?”

  But Tall Joe just stood high on a wagon seat and held up his arms for quiet. “We gotta cross now,” he shouted back. He said the river’s low, but it could rise overnight, no tellin’. Another thing he said, come tomorrow morning the animals will be so frisky they’ll be harder to force into the water.

  I must help Ma wrap up the cheese and figs we ate at noon, and change Bennie’s wet pants. Already two men are riding to the other side. Water is up to their saddles and the horses’ tails are floating. Several boys on horseback are whooping and yelling as they ride across. Their rifles were taken away from them so they wouldn’t shoot anybody by mistake. Hooray.

  April 2?, Wednesday, I think

  While crossing the Big Blue, Jake, Bennie, and I sat in our ­little spot in the wagon. As we floated I could feel the pull and jerk as the animals struggled to swim. We could see forward through a small space between boxes. There were many wagons ahead of us, their white tops swaying from the current.

  Suddenly Pa jumped into the river to turn our oxen because they were trying to swim downstream. Ma grabbed the reins and wrapped them around her hands.

  When we began tipping over on our right side I screamed, terrified we’d sink. Water poured in through the canvas. I could see that Ma’s bonnet had fallen back over her shoulders and she was pulling the reins hard, trying to turn the animals. Everything in the wagon not tied down slid toward us. Two sacks of beans rolled onto my legs and a bag of flour burst open when it fell against the rocker.

  While looking straight ahead, Ma yelled for us to lean with all our weight against the high wall. As we clung to an overhead hoop one of the lanterns swung and hit my head so hard I wanted to let go, but I knew I must keep my arm around little Ben so he wouldn’t get washed away.

  Pa kept swimming with the oxen and with Ma’s help, we somehow tipped back up. It seemed forever, but was probably just a minute.

  Bennie was crying because he was scared and his clothes were wet. The three of us were covered with a gooey white paste from the spilled flour. It felt awful. My sleeves were sticky and my braid was stiff as a broom.

  Finally there was a thump as our wheels touched bottom, then there was splashing as our team pulled us through the mud and onto the beach. More water rushed in, soaking our blankets, but we’ve hung them over brush to dry while we wait on shore for the others. It might take two days to get everyone across.

  I hope we don’t have to cross any more rivers!

  This afternoon my little friends the twins wandered off to pick berries, but now it is near sunset and they’ve not returned. Their parents are frantic and I’m worried sick. Tall Joe and Pa are leading a search party. I wanted to help, too, but Ma said she needs me to watch Jake and Bennie so she can go sit with the twins’ mother, to comfort her.

  Oh, those poor children — they’re much too small to be lost.

  Next day

  When the bugle sounded at 4 o’clock, I awoke with a sick feeling, remembering I’d fallen asleep to the voices of worried adults. Some had taken torches beyond the corral of wagons to search the grass and riverbanks, late into the night.

  When I crawled out from the quilt, Bennie and Jake rolled sleepily into my warm space.

  “Mama?” I called.

  “I’m here, Hattie.” Her voice came from her tent.

  “Have the little twins been found?” I whispered.

  Ma stepped out of the doorway. Dark circles were under her eyes, and her braid was over her shoulder, not combed out since yesterday.

  “No, dear, they ain’t been found.”

  Ma hurried us through breakfast of cold biscuits and jam. When Pa brought in the oxen and began harnessing them, I cried out, “We can’t be leaving!”

  He and Ma looked at each other. “Two other families will stay behind to help the parents search, Hattie. We must keep going.”

  “But why? Why can’t we stay and help, too?”

  Pa came over and put his strong arms around me. “I’m sorry the children are lost, Hattie. But their ma and pa have insisted that everyone keep going. They understand we can’t all stay. I’m sorry.”

  As we pulled out I watched the campsite. The mother was just a small shape until we rounded a blu
ff, then I saw her no more.

  I pulled my brothers into my lap and started to sing them a song, but my heart was so heavy I burst out ­crying.

  Later

  I taught Jake how to shake out his blanket, then roll it up with string. I must do Bennie’s because he just drags his in the dust. Ma is too tired to notice their dirty faces so I wash them myself.

  Another day

  Today we came to the Little Blue, but thank God we ­didn’t have to cross it. Our wagons are so heavy, the oxen strain to pull us up the trail. We’ll follow the river into Nebraska.

  Every time we stop and the dust has settled, I look back to see if the little twins and their family have caught up. No one speaks of them and I don’t know why.

  This morning I made batter for pancakes. I went to the stream to fill my pitcher, but when I returned to camp the batter was black with mosquitoes. I started to dump it into the dirt, but Aunt June put her hand on my arm.

  “Hattie,” she said, “don’t waste — just stir them up good. The griddle’s hot enough to cook ’em through and no one ever died from such.”

  So we had mosquitoes for breakfast. Jake called them “skeeter cakes” and he said they tasted just fine soaked in molasses, but to me they were like sand in my teeth.

  When we opened one of our sacks we found the bacon to be green and crawling with maggots, fifty pounds of it. Ma was so furious she shouted at my father.

  “That butcher in Independence said it would last months and look here,” she said to Pa, wiping her finger along the meat. “There ain’t a lick of salt anywhere.” Every day it seems there is a new disappointment for my poor mother.