“Hattie,” she said, “I bet I’m the only bride what wears her wedding shoes tied on like a bonnet.”
I know this is selfish, but I’m glad Gideon is busy all day driving their little wagon, because that means Pepper and I can talk all we want. Wouldn’t Becky be surprised to learn my new best friend is a married girl!
We nooned by a creek, in a cool grove of willows. In the distance there was a rumble, like thunder, but the noise didn’t stop. Tall Joe said don’t be afraid, that three miles away is a waterfall so spectacular it’ll take your breath away.
The families agreed to rest here an extra couple of hours and whoever wanted to see Shoshone Falls could hike in. Ma and Mrs. Anderson stayed with the littlest children and with Aunt June who’s so uncomfortable she has to sleep sitting up. I think her baby will be born any day because she’s big as a horse.
Jake came with us. He had trouble keeping up so Gideon and Wade took turns carrying him on their shoulders. Pepper and I had to shout because the falls were so loud we couldn’t hear each other.
And, oh, what a sight. This is where the Snake River falls 200 feet over a cliff. Spray felt like rain on our faces. There were ferns and delicate flowers along the moist banks. After so many days on the desert, it was the most wonderful cool feeling, oh, how I did not want to leave. We stared for just a few minutes, then it was time to hike back to the wagons.
It seems crazy to walk six extra miles just to sightsee, but Aunt June had said, “Go, Hattie. You’ll likely never have another chance.”
When Pepper and I could hear ourselves again we agreed that if only we weren’t in a hurry to beat winter, we’d like to stay in a place longer than a few hours.
She said, “I’m feeling tired, Hattie, like I just want to lay my head down and sleep forever.”
August 1, 1847
This land is rough and dry. Prickly pear is all along the trail and beyond, much of it blooming with yellow flowers. It’s pretty, but hard not to step on. We are forever picking thorns from our shoes and the hems of our skirts.
My ankles are scratched raw and have bled onto my petticoat, which can’t be helped, I reckon. Like all the other women, my hem is ragged and stained with mud. There is no use trying so hard to look pretty anymore, I decided. The boys are dirty as us, worse in fact. I have not seen Pa comb his hair since Missoura, he just runs his fingers over his scalp, then puts on his hat.
Our oxen are slower each day.
After Pa talked to Ma, he took the big trunk full of my sisters’ things and left it by the side of the trail. He also set out the porcelain washbowl and cabinet that had been our grandparents’, Ma’s wedding dress, and a box of his own tools.
I waited for Ma to break down crying, but she didn’t. Ever since Pa reminded her that Oregon is our last chance to follow a dream, she has stood by him without complaint. Oh, that I could be as brave as Ma.
I opened the abandoned trunk one last time, to touch the calico my sisters had wore. How I wanted their dresses for my own, to remember them by, and also to look lovely as they had. Ma came up and gently closed the lid.
“It’s time to move on, Hattie.”
When the wagons pulled out it looked like we left behind a general store. There was piles of books and plates, a coffee mill, clothes, tools, and a roll-top desk. A few women wept to see their treasures thrown out. Even I had a catch in my throat. What will be left when we get to Oregon? I asked Ma. How will we make a home?
Mama said, “Don’t worry, Hattie. Our home is our family, not our possessions.”
When Mr. Lewis read from the Bible this morning, and after we prayed, I had a new thought about Mrs. Kenker. The farther away from Missoura we go, the more she takes. Maybe she’s just scared, is all. Maybe the emptier she feels, the more she fills her wagon.
Thousand Springs
Our thermometer showed 101 degrees when we nooned. We wanted to jump in the river to cool off, but it was so far below with no way to hike down. I wish I could cut off the bottom half of my skirt for it is so hot.
On the other side of the river there was something unusual: a waterfall pouring out of a hole in the canyon wall, like a spout in a teapot. Pa said it flows from underground and is called Thousand Springs, but where it starts is a mystery.
During this stop Mr. Kenker got in another argument with Tall Joe. Soon there were fists. Uncle Tim and Pa hurried over to pull the men apart.
“Gentlemen, please, please, get a hold of yourselves,” Pa said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
But before he could say anything else, Mr. Kenker did a terrible thing. He brushed the dirt off his sleeves and said to Tall Joe, “You ain’t telling me what to do anymore. It’s hot and whether you like it or not I’m gonna take a swim.”
Then, right before our eyes, old Mr. Kenker walked to the edge of the cliff, stepped into midair, and dropped out of sight.
For a moment there was silence, then the piercing scream of Mrs. Kenker.
Still along the Snake River
Pa says Mr. Kenker must’ve been going mad day by day, until finally everything got to him. After he jumped we crowded the edge on our bellies to look over. The river swept him away so fast we soon lost sight of him.
Mrs. Kenker fainted from screaming so hard and was carried to her wagon by Tall Joe himself. (I confess I am too shocked to feel sad.)
Someone spread a blanket in the shade for her. Tall Joe stood on a wheel and pulled aside the curtain to look inside. He stared for a moment, then turned toward us.
“Lordy,” he said.
Two by two we peeked in and soon there was a crowd. I have never seen such junk. It was piled so high it had started to rip through the canvas.
Tall Joe said, “Go ahead, clean it out,” when Pa and some others wondered what to do.
Out came Mr. Bigg’s cart, the wheels gone. Mrs. Anderson claimed her quilt, Pa found his hammer, and there was the milking stool someone had given Pepper for a wedding present. I found Ma’s spoon and rose plate.
I watched from a distance as folks took back their possessions. Mrs. Bigg stood next to me, also watching. Rolling her sleeves up over her big arms she said, “Hattie, as hard as it is, we need to be kind to Mrs. Kenker, whether she deserves it or not. That’s what mercy is, honey.”
Mrs. Kenker had recovered from her faint and was sitting up. She seemed surprised to see the contents of her wagon scattered about. Then as if she suddenly remembered what her husband had done, she covered her face with her hands and began weeping.
Tall Joe seemed beside himself. He looked at Pa, then threw his hands in the air. “Campbell, I ain’t an expert in these matters. What d’you reckon we should do?”
Pa shook his head. “I dunno.”
It was decided we’d spend the night where we was. Five men rode ahead to search the river for Mr. Kenker’s body.
Ma and Aunt June invited Mrs. Kenker to sit with us for supper, but she stayed by her wagon instead. I’m sorry for her that she’s lost her husband, even though he was a nasty fellow. How horrible that she saw him jump to his death.
Later
I think everyone’s confused about how to act. For a few minutes Mrs. Kenker was treated with the tender sympathies due a widow, but moments later folks discovered she’s the thief who took Mr. Bigg’s cart and everything else that’s been missing.
The next morning we moved out at well before sunup to beat the heat. Gideon and Wade harnessed Mrs. Kenker’s two oxen and asked if she needed help loading her wagon.
“No, boys, thank you,” she said quietly, not looking at them.
The last I saw of Mrs. Kenker she was sitting on a trunk surrounded by her things, looking at the river.
We must cross the Snake to get to Fort Boise. Up ahead there are three islands that Tall Joe says we’ll use as stepping-stones.
His
face is sunburned and looks sad. I heard him tell Pa that two years ago when he crossed here, four wagons were swept away and the families drowned.
Lord. I almost forgot how scared of rivers I am.
Before bed
After I tucked in Bennie, Jake and I sat up by the fire. He said I am his favorite sister. (He forgets I am his only sister.)
Fort Boise
We’re almost touching the Territory of Oregon. I have not wrote for a week or so, but Aunt June says I must put it all down quick, before I forget. Good and bad.
Well, they didn’t find Mr. Kenker’s body. We reached Three Island Crossing mid-afternoon of the next day. Black clouds and thunder meant rain any minute. Folks discussed if we should cross now or wait for the storm to pass. While Tall Joe leaned forward in his saddle to study the river, something happened that made him decide right quick.
There came a rumbling of hooves. Indians on horseback were galloping toward us, shrieking and waving rifles. Before we could turn our wagons into a safe circle they were gone. Tall Joe shouted instructions and while word spread from wagon to wagon, the Indians made another pass. No gunfire was exchanged, but we knew they wanted us to get off their land and get off now.
(Maybe Pa would be mad, too, if strangers were tramping on our land.)
I wanted to panic, especially hearing the terrified cries of so many women and babies. I didn’t know what scared me more, Indians or the thought of crossing another river.
Tall Joe led the first wagons into the water single file. The islands divide the river into four channels. Pa and Uncle Tim watched for three hours until it was our turn, the whole time nervous because the Indians had made camp a mile away and we could hear drums.
Why God sends babies into the world at times like this I’ll never understand, but He does. Just as we were ready to ford this first channel Uncle Tim cried out to Ma.
“Augusta, hurry!”
Ma and I climbed into their wagon. Aunt June was lying in two inches of cold water, soaked to the skin and breathless with pain. The current was fast for I could feel us turning sideways, then pulling straight, then sideways again as the animals swam with Pa.
I was so concerned for Aunt June I quick forgot to worry about us drowning.
As we pulled up onto the first island Uncle Tim motioned to those behind us to keep going, that we’d catch up. When folks heard a baby was being born in a wet wagon, we found ourselves being given chairs, four of them, that we were able to make into a raised bed. Mrs. Lewis handed over a dry quilt, and a clean dress for Aunt June to change into.
So we crossed the second channel with water washing over our laps, but my aunt snug and dry. Her baby daughter was born just as we pulled onto the third island. Her name is River Ann Valentine.
The baby was only five minutes old when we began to ford the last channel. Screams drew Ma and me to look out the back. There was Mr. Bigg. He was tied to his seat, leaning hard to one side for his wagon was tipping over. When I saw that Mrs. Bigg had fallen in the water and was trying to grab her husband’s hand, I started to leap out to help, but Ma held me back.
“Mrs. Bigg,” I screamed. “Swim!”
Her arms were splashing. Each time she managed to grab a wheel or harness, the wagon tipped deeper toward her. Three men jumped in. They held on to keep it upright as another man tried to save Mrs. Bigg.
Everything happened so fast.
In an instant Mrs. Bigg and her rescuer disappeared under the tongue of the wagon. Their splashing arms were seen on the other side, moving with the river, then they were gone.
I screamed and screamed.
Mr. Bigg cried, “Sarah!” He tried to dive in after her, but couldn’t get out from the rope that was holding him to the seat. His horses kept swimming and the men holding on were able to keep the wagon from sinking.
That’s all I want to say for now.
Still Fort Boise
It was close to midnight by the time all the wagons made it to the other side, guided by torches we planted along shore. The reason we kept on through the darkness, made darker because clouds hid the moon and stars, was because it would have been impossible to protect ourselves the way we were spread out.
All night we could hear Indians on the south side of the river, we could see their campfires. Pa said maybe they were just trying to scare us, move us on, and wouldn’t have done any harm.
Mr. Bigg invited the Anderson family to share his wagon and to help him drive. He is so heartbroken he barely speaks.
I am furious with God.
Why did someone as generous and loving and honest as Mrs. Bigg have to die while Mrs. Kenker gets to live?
The reason I know she lives is because the morning after we made the Three Island Crossing, we saw her way on the other side, trying to coax her oxen in. There were whispers about just leaving her to fend for herself.
Finally Tall Joe and Mr. Lewis swam their horses over and brought her back. She kept her eyes straight ahead and would not look at us.
I am too crushed over Mrs. Bigg to hate Mrs. Kenker anymore. I don’t know why.
Afternoon
Well, to report happier news, my little cousin, River, is healthy and about the most beautiful child I’ve ever set eyes on. Aunt June is back to her cheerful self, walking with Ma and Mrs. Anderson. Uncle Tim made a tiny hammock to hang from inside their wagon so the baby can sleep with a cool breeze.
It bothers me that no one talks about poor Mrs. Bigg. Every time I remember her thrashing in the water my heart races with panic. If only I could have saved her . . .
I reckon the reason no one talks about her or the other terrible things that’ve happened is there’s just not a thing in the world we can do about them.
I asked Wade his opinion on this matter, so he told me a joke. He said, “How does an ant eat a buffalo?”
“Don’t know.”
“One bite at a time, Hattie.”
In other words, we are going to Oregon one step at a time, slowly, looking forward all the way. We must put the past behind us.
As we approached Fort Boise we found ourselves in a green valley, a welcome sight after 300 miles of black rock and desert. Woods and streams and cooler air. I tasted my first salmon, traded to us by Indians who came into camp. They were friendly and smiled easy. For once I was relaxed. It really is true, I’ve decided: They’re as different among themselves as white folks are. I’m going to stop being afraid of them.
Just like that.
Rabbits are everywhere, so many that they’re easy to hunt. We’re now drying their meat like we did buffalo and ox.
Leaving Fort Boise, the Snake River turns northeast and, since we must head northwest, folks call this Farewell Bend. Tall Joe says three days from here we’ll climb Flagstaff Hill. If our poor ol’ wagons make it to the top we’ll be able to see the Blue Mountains.
The Blue Mountains of Oregon!
Oregon.
Later
The day after Farewell Bend, Pepper’s two mules died. When Gideon went looking for them in the morning, he found them lying on their sides in the grass. The sad part is there’s not one spare animal left that has the strength to pull their wagon, little as it is, the rest of the way to Oregon.
Pepper and I looked inside one last time at their small collection of wedding gifts. She slipped a mirror and brush into her pocket and Gideon rolled their quilt up to carry over his shoulder.
When we reached the brow of Flagstaff Hill we were winded from the altitude and from climbing. The air was so cold my clothes felt like they wasn’t on. But there in the distance, rising above a layer of clouds, were the Blue Mountains. They were covered with snow. The sight of them took my breath they were so beautiful.
I wanted to shout, “hooray,” but it came out as a whisper, I was so tired.
Tall Joe slapped his hat against his leg. “We gotta move it, folks. Only 400 miles to Oregon City, but looks like winter’s early. If the Blues have snow, then the Cascades surely do, too. Let’s go, let’s go!”
Before breakfast
My back is sore, I think from carrying Bennie yesterday. Sometimes his little legs get so tired he cries for me to pick him up.
Blue Mountains
I ain’t been writing like I did when the days were hot and lazy. Guess I’m tired, guess everyone is. There’ve been no dances, either. We’ve been in the wilderness six months, but it feels like forever.
Crossing the Blues was hard on the animals. Sixteen dropped in one day, so several families were forced to abandon their wagons. Men tied ropes to the carcasses and dragged them to the side, then used planks to roll them downhill. The wagons we left as is, in case folks coming along behind us need something from them.
We butchered only five oxen as there ain’t enough time to do them all. Pa hopes we’ll see deer or other game.
The air has changed. It’s cooler, there’s moisture, I can feel we’re in Oregon.
These mountains are thick with pine forests, with plenty of grass, water, and firewood. Pa says soil that grows trees this magnificent will grow anything. He’s more and more excited, thinking about the farm we’ll have. It don’t bother him that we’ll arrive dirty and ragged-looking.
Twins were born last night! The girl was named Sarah, after Mrs. Bigg, and the boy was named — guess! — Blue. That makes five babies on this journey, counting Eliza May.
Oh, I talked with the other bride, the one who was instantly a mother. She is cheerful and has so much help from other women I don’t think she’ll figure she has four children until she wakes up in Oregon City. I asked her what it’s like to have a husband. She blushed so red I thought she’d faint.
Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie Page 8