Jim Bridger has an Indian wife. I saw her with some other squaws on the sunny side of the fort, staking down deer hides to skin. She was pretty and very young, about my age I think. I wanted to talk to her, but didn’t know what to say, so instead I waved howdee. She looked down at her lap. Maybe she is shy.
Mrs. Anderson and Ma was by a creek washing our blankets. To wring them out they stood three feet apart, each holding an end and twisting until all the water dripped out. Aunt June spread them in the grass to dry. When they saw me they stopped talking, but I had already heard them.
They were saying they’d be quite content settling at Fort Bridger, never to travel again. There was water, good earth to plow, plenty of people, and all our families were safe. “Maybe Narcissa Whitman is braver than we are,” Aunt June said about her friend. “I don’t know how she did it.”
Ma said, “And who knows what’s in Oregon? Who knows what will happen between now and then? There are Indians farther north. I’m sure there’s more danger that Tall Joe ain’t telling us about.”
Next day
Bennie’s arm is healing. Pa made a new splint so it’s easier for Ben to move. The other good news is that Wade is back to telling jokes. The only problems left over from the hemlock are that his tongue is numb on the right side, and his jaws ache. Tall Joe says he probably didn’t eat very much of it, but Ma says it’s a miracle from God, that’s all there is to it, a miracle.
Mrs. Bigg called me over this morning before we pulled out from Fort Bridger. As she folded their blankets into a crate she said, “Hattie, Mr. Bigg’s cart is missing. Someone took it in the night.”
At noon I helped Mrs. Bigg make a search of camp. She is so large that her steps are slow. The first wagon we went to was the Kenkers’.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Kenker said, “and how dare you accuse us, we’re just poor old people, besides I’m not feeling well, neither is my husband, maybe everyone would like it if we just plumb keeled over and died before we get to Oregon, maybe y’d be happy then . . .”
Mrs. Bigg held up her hand. “That’s enough,” she said. “Go back to your nap, Mrs. Kenker, sorry to bother you.”
When we were out of hearing distance I said, “If Mrs. Kenker’s so innocent why did she make excuses for herself and why ain’t she upset to hear someone stole Mr. Bigg’s cart?”
“Hattie, if she is a thief, then soon enough she’ll make a mistake and folks’ll find her out. It’s not like she can leave town or hide.” Mrs. Bigg rested a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Be patient, honey.”
Afternoon
After a long pull up a creek called the Muddy we’ve come to the Bear River. There’s a beautiful campsite with a trail coming in from the right. A piece of paper was nailed to a tree. Tall Joe read it first, then passed it around.
“They made it, folks,” he shouted. “The other wagons made it ’cross the desert and just a few days ahead of us seems like.” Cheers went up.
Our horses, mules, oxen, and cattle are grazing along the broad river bottom. It is the most peaceful sight. Groups of men are fishing or sitting in the sun or exploring the meadows.
There is the sound of children splashing and playing along the river. The women are spreading washed clothes on the bushes, also sitting in the sun, talking, resting. Some are busy over cooking fires.
Now it’s not just Ma and Aunt June and Mrs. Anderson talking about going no farther, but several other families are discussing the very same thing: Why not settle here in the Bear River valley?
At supper five families made an announcement. This place suits them so well they’ve decided to homestead, said they’d not seen finer farmland ever. But Pa wants to keep going. He is so set on Oregon and living by the Pacific Ocean, he can’t think of anything else.
Pa said he’s had too many dreams that were lost or forgotten or that he just gave up on.
“This is our last chance, Augusta, to fulfill a dream as big as Oregon. Please stand by me. I need you.”
Ma says all she dreams of is keeping her family safe. As for me, my dream is that Pepper and I will always be friends, and that I will someday be adored by a husband I love. And maybe Pepper and I can still live next door to each other!
So, we’re on the trail again, ten days from Fort Hall.
Sheep Rock
One side of Sheep Rock rises up like a stone wall. Pine trees surround it on all sides and among the cliffs are mountain sheep. Tall Joe said that back in ’42, John C. Frémont explored this place and named it Sheep Rock.
We’re still on the Bear River. It’s the same beautiful green as Pepper’s eyes, and Wade’s. When we saw how deep it is we were relieved to learn it makes a sharp turn south and we don’t have to cross it. Tall Joe says it empties into the Great Salt Lake; he followed it once.
An amazing sight has made us all want to camp for several days. There are pools bubbling up with hot water! There’s even one with a geyser called “Steamboat” because somehow it makes a high-pitched whistle that sounds just like a boat on the Missoura. Hearing it made me so happy-homesick I almost started bawling.
Folks are swimming and floating in the warm water, and drinking it. To me it smells like eggs on the rotten side, but the taste ain’t bad at all.
Wade and Gideon dared each other to sit on the geyser. They took turns and, oh, what an event. While Pepper and I watched from the banks, Gideon swam out to the center and waited.
Soon enough heavy bubbles began lifting him up and up and up. His arms and legs waved like a turtle’s on its back as the geyser bounced him up and down. By the time it stopped, Gideon had lost his shirt. Wade rode the geyser next and lost his pants which caused folks to erupt in hilarious laughter and so the day went.
I was so pleased to have Pepper to myself all afternoon. We lay in the grass and stared up at the clouds. I asked her what it was like to have a husband.
After a long while she turned her face toward me. How pretty she looked, her green eyes, and cheeks high with color.
“Oh, Hattie, you are such a dear. Marriage is, well, it’s the most wonderful of wonderfuls. Someday you’ll understand.”
I wish Pepper would tell me exactly what she means, what it’s really truly like to be loved by a man.
Later
At supper Ma stirred several cups of sugar and a pint of raspberries into a pail of the mineral water. Mrs. Bigg did the same with citrus syrup to make lemonade, and they was the most delicious bubbly drinks any of us had ever tasted. Pepper and I drank so much though, we were not hungry for supper, and I had a stomachache all night long. She told me the next day she did, too.
Tall Joe said one of the pools was named Beer Spring because mountain men swear they get drunk after a few sips, but Pa says that’s likely just another tall tale.
Before bed
Jake and Ben complained and pushed at each other all day, then argued with me when I said it was time to unroll their blankets. I’m tired of being their sister.
Two days later
Two days north of the soda springs the sky turned black and the air cold. In an instant a wind picked up so fierce I had to hold my bonnet on with both hands even though it was tied under my chin. My skirt blew back so tight it looked like I was wearing men’s trousers.
When the hail hit we stopped the wagons and ran for cover. The poor animals moaned and cried, but there was no way we could protect them. It felt like someone was pelting us with rocks. In an instant my arms and neck were bruised.
The hailstones bounced like popping corn and soon the ground was white. Many of the wagon tops, ours included, ended up with holes. The storm passed as quick as it started, and flooded the road so that mud sucked at the wheels as we pulled out.
It was our turn to be in the lead. Because of the storm we thought nothing of the abandoned
wagon we came upon. Its cover also had holes.
But when Tall Joe came back from inspecting it, his face told a different story.
“Folks, those holes ain’t from hailstones,” Tall Joe said. He held up an arrow with feathers on its end.
Quick as you please the men began searching in case someone from the wagon was left behind. The Indians had stole the mules and whatever treasures possible, for there was a trail of scattered goods.
Wade and Gideon made a gruesome discovery.
About two hundred yards away, inside a thicket of sagebrush, was a pair of feet sticking out of a grave, men’s we think because they were big with hairy toes. It seems that after he was buried the Indians came back and dug deep enough to steal his boots, then left him just like we found him.
I thought it could’ve been Pa if we’d taken that shortcut. My stomach felt tight thinking Indians might be watching us and that they might not be friendly.
There was some talk about digging up the poor fellow to see who he was, but Tall Joe said it wouldn’t be pretty that’s for sure, and we’ll likely find out when we get to Fort Hall, just a few days north.
He and Pa shoveled dirt to cover the dead man’s feet and we piled rocks on top to keep animals away.
It was a solemn group that pulled out. Pepper and I and Wade walked together next to the wagon Gideon was driving. We watch the horizon more and wonder what will happen if we see Indians.
This is a land of sagebrush and rock, much of it black. Tall Joe says it is from volcanoes, and that the western part of the continent is full of them, old ones that don’t erupt anymore.
Our animals pull hard and slow — they’re plumb wore out. Tall Joe rides back and forth among the wagons, ordering folks to lighten their loads again. Some families pile belongings neatly to the side of the trail, others heave things out, letting them land wherever.
I keep my eye on Mrs. Kenker, but she has not thrown anything away. Two of her oxen dropped dead yesterday, one today, so now there are three pulling. Tall Joe warned her again.
“We’ll leave you behind, madam, you and your junk and your husband. Better start tossing.”
Every day there are at least two animals to butcher, either cows, horses, or oxen. What meat we don’t eat, the women cut into strips for jerky. We hang them from the hoops inside our wagons, and the dry air toughens them pretty quick. The layers of dust seem to keep the flies and yellow jackets away.
Fort Hall
Aunt June was excited to see this trading post because Narcissa Whitman had been here and wrote to her about it. I think it looks like all the others with the usual bunch of dirty mountain men, plenty of Indians and tipis camped outside the log walls.
Pepper and I wonder if they are the same Indians that ambushed the wagons in front of us. I try not to look at them all with hatred, but it’s hard not to when I think they could hurt us and women and babies, and families like ours.
We set up camp on the west side of the fort, near a creek. Tall Joe brought us news after he talked with the man in charge.
Seems the other wagons made it across the desert all right, but one of the young men stepped on a rattlesnake when he wandered into some brush. The bite is above his knee and now the poison has spread so that his entire leg is black. His fever is high.
When Tall Joe told us his name I remembered him to be one of the young men that raced us across the Platte, a loud fellow, but nice. For some reason this news made me so sick at heart I just sat on the bank staring at the water.
What next? I thought.
First it was the little twins that got lost picking berries — we still don’t know if they was ever found. Then it was hemlock that killed poor Cassia, and Wade’s friends . . . there was the boy who fell off his parents’ wagon . . . the mother who died by Chimney Rock . . .
Suddenly my chest felt so heavy I burst out crying. Who will be next? Mama? Will Aunt June have her baby without bleeding to death? I’m tired of being brave and tired of being dirty.
I crawled in the wagon where no one could see me and took off my dress. My bare white arms are bruised from the hailstones and there are many tiny scabs from mosquito bites. My wrists and hands are dry and cracked. What boy will ever think me nice to look at?
Among the flour bags I found my satchel and the spare dress still tucked inside. I unfolded it, pulled it over my head, then tied the starched ribbon around my waist. Even though Ma said it’s not to be worn until Oregon, I do not care. I want to feel pretty now.
Next, I undid my braid and brushed my hair one hundred strokes until at last it seemed the dust was out. For near an hour I tried to twist it on top my head like Ma does, but could not figure how, so for now will settle for a long braid.
Later
When Ma saw me wearing my clean dress she opened her mouth to say something, but instead gave me a slow smile. She opened her arms for me, then whispered, “How lovely you look, Hattie.”
We stayed at Fort Hall two days. It’ll be a long time before we see civilization so the men got extra parts to fix the wheels that most certainly will shrink and break in the dry air. This has been a problem since we left the Platte, many, many broken wheels. (It has been tiresome to watch so many repairs that I just have not bothered to describe them.)
The young man bitten by the rattlesnake died the evening before we pulled out. His family is devastated, but there is no time to mourn over his grave. Tall Joe says we must be going. Summer is almost over.
Next day
We are heading west along the Snake River and shall do so for about 300 miles. I have never seen such a torrent of wild water.
The river is far below us, running between black canyon walls that twist sharp here and there. Even though we’re in sight of so much water, getting down to it is another matter.
Forgot to mention: Back at Fort Hall, Pa and some of the other men found enough scraps to build a cart for Mr. Bigg. The wheels are such that Mr. Bigg can roll them with his arms and get around on his own. He invited Bennie to sit on his lap for a ride and away they went, bumping through the sagebrush around the outside of the wagons, twice.
I am taking care not to scratch my arms so they won’t bleed and ruin my sleeves. Aunt June gave me one of her prettiest aprons to wear over my dress. It is blue with two pockets and a ruffled hem.
Another day
Four Indians on horseback appeared out of a canyon as we were starting supper. Their dark hair was braided and their legs were bare except for moccasins. Tall Joe rode over to them with his hand raised in greeting.
The Indians, turns out, were friendly, they just wanted to warn Tall Joe about some Blackfeet who are out looking for trouble. One of the men had a bundle of fur draped over his horse’s rump. He pushed it to the dirt and motioned for Tall Joe to take it. It was a buffalo skin to help our leader stay warm at night, a gift, he seemed to be saying. Tall Joe picked it up, put it around his shoulders, then walked over to his own saddlebag. He dug around in it and pulled out a small sack of tobacco which he tossed to his new friend.
I have decided Indians are like white folks in that some are honest and kind, others are liars and thieves.
After supper I almost made an awful mistake. I almost took Pa’s rifle and marched over to Mrs. Kenker to give her a piece of my mind that’s how mad I was.
There she was serving pie to some folks, her hair combed pretty on top her head, smiling and — of all the nerve — wearing Aunt June’s other beautiful apron, the white lace one we thought we left drying on the bushes at Bear River.
The reason I did not yell at Mrs. Kenker was because Aunt June saw me thinking about it and grabbed my arm. She said, “Leave it go, Hattie.”
“But it’s yours . . .”
“Yes,” she said, “but I think Mrs. Kenker needs it more’n I do. It’s only an apron, Hattie, it ain’t w
orth making a fuss.”
But to me it ain’t just an apron, it was Ma’s spoon, Bennie’s sweater, and all the other things.
I hate Mrs. Kenker.
She gets away with being sneaky because she’s old and smiles nice and most folks is too busy to keep an eye on her, or the folks that do know her tricks keep quiet because it’s easier. It’s not fair. I myself am very sad that my own sisters are dead, but I don’t steal from people. If I did, Pa would be quick to wup me and make me apologize. He don’t allow dishonesty in our family.
Along the Snake River
Two days ago we passed the loudest waterfalls we’ve ever heard. Tall Joe says that a few years back some American trappers were in a canoe, but didn’t know they was drifting toward rapids. By the time they saw how close they were it was too late to paddle backward. Over they went, drowning like bugs. That’s why it’s called American Falls.
Some miles later the river splits in two as it pours over a huge rock, down to a churning pool. It looks like twin waterfalls, and that’s what it’s called, Twin Falls.
The days are hot as ever. I must keep my sleeves down so my arms won’t blister. Hour after hour the mosquitoes bite through my clothes, but I do not let myself scratch.
Another thing, the sand is too hot for us to go barefoot. My shoes split apart and the only way to keep them on is with a wet leather strip. When it dries, it shrinks tight so I can walk without them falling off.
Even so, the sand gets inside and feels lumpy. Sometimes all I can think about is how miserable I am. I wish I could be cheerful as Pepper. She never complains, and like her brother, Wade, finds a way to joke. For instance, today she looked down at her feet and laughed.
Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie Page 7