by Earl Murray
I went back to my camp to take a watercolor from one of my packs. When I returned, she was holding Henrietta in her lap, crying softly. She looked up at me and wiped her eyes.
“Doubt if blubbering will help,” she admitted.
I handed her the watercolor. “I know you told me not to paint your portrait, but I thought I would take a chance at trying to catch you as a younger woman.”
She stared at the painting in disbelief.
“How could you have known how I looked, or that I had a favorite brown dress just like this?”
“I can’t explain it,” I said simply. “I just knew.”
“Satan did this!” she cried. “There’s no other way.”
She held the piece away from her by her thumb and forefinger, taking quick steps towards the coals of a fire. With her free hand she rustled the coals with a stick and dropped the painting into the small flame.
The watercolor burned readily, and before I could stop her, Mrs. Rowe held her hands into the fire. She stepped back and examined her blistered fingers with satisfaction.
“I reckon that will purge them,” she said.
I urged her to wrap the burns but she said she needed to allow time for full cleansing.
“And don’t talk to me again,” she warned. “Child of the devil!”
Millie and Annie believe I should adhere to her wishes and stay away from her.
“If she chooses to come to you, so be it,” Millie said. “She’s no doubt a good woman, but touched in the head.”
I have decided not to worry about it one way or the other. Should Mrs. Rowe decide she wants to be friends again, that will be fine. Otherwise I’ll consider her to be just another casualty of the desert.
Quincannon’s Journal
10 SEPTEMBER 1846
I find myself in the same situation I’ve endured so many times in the past. Though I’ve always respected the desert, I seem to underestimate its effect on me. It seems a man can endure thirst and tell many tales about it, but he just doesn’t realize how much discomfort the experience creates until he puts himself through it once again.
I had wrongly assumed that we would be traveling at a much faster rate. I should have known better. Families cannot possibly get going in the morning in anywhere near the time of adults alone, and there are a number of elderly who are having a very difficult time. They have lived hard lives and their joints aren’t working well. Even though the younger men help them, they just cannot seem to keep pace.
A group of emigrants offered to separate from us and travel behind at their own speed, but I won’t allow that. Too many things can happen. The younger men don’t mind doing the extra work and the older settlers are getting used to accepting the help.
A large number of these younger men are Kentuckians who’ve decided they want to start over in a less settled land. Many of them have inherited their grandfathers’ long-barreled rifles, the same rifles that were used against the British at New Orleans. These young frontiersmen can shoot the head off a buzzard over a half mile away. I’ve heard such stories and thought them all to be exaggeration. But now I’ve seen it myself, and it’s still hard to believe.
Needless to say, any antelope we encounter fall quickly. Unfortunately, these have been few and far between. The caravans ahead of us have no doubt scared them far back off the trail.
Because of the food and water situation, I have emphasized to everyone how important it is to get across the desert as quickly as possible. It not only saves the oxen but keeps everyone stronger as well. We are about to the point where night travel will be the most expedient. But no one can adjust to that immediately, so I’ll work into it by gradually altering our times of rest.
The emigrants ahead of us must be having a harder time of it than we are. We’ve come across a number of dead oxen, barely picked clean by predators. The skies are filled with vultures, and they often press the issue by landing next to our horses and cattle while they are lying down.
There’s no use in wasting ammunition on them, so I allow Pearl and Katie McCord to unleash their terriers. It’s quite the sight to see Rufus and Jake scramble after the birds, often lunging into the air at them as they raise their large wings and flap away. Though many of the birds are huge, I don’t believe they want to take the chance of letting one of those furry monsters clamp onto them.
Those two dogs have also decreased the rat population considerably. It’s not unusual to see one or both of them digging sand out of a hole faster than their prey. I’ve seen Silas reach in and pull a dog out by the tail. He won’t let Pearl or Katie do it; they are left to watch and worry, afraid their pets will become lost in the ground forever. Those two dogs aren’t afraid to go after anything.
I will say that Silas has them well trained. They will sit and stay on command, and remain in position until he releases them. They aren’t as well mannered for the girls, though, who work constantly to keep them out of trouble. They provide a lot of amusement for the camp in a situation that would ordinarily leave everyone severely discouraged.
I haven’t yet told anyone about the body of a man I discovered while scouting three days ago. He had apparently become separated from the caravan ahead of us a number of days ago. He was nothing but a skeleton covered with ants.
If I tell anyone, it will be Ella. She’s been strong through this long journey and, if the truth were known, she gives me a lot of strength to boot. We have long discussions in the evening and there’s not much we haven’t covered. I’ve discussed death with her before and it helps. I’ve known men on fur brigades who saw a lot of terrible things and wouldn’t talk about it. They just held it all in. I learned later that they exploded from within and either killed themselves or someone else.
I’ve decided to leave Sean Malone in charge of the wagons most of the time now. I’ll be out ahead scouting every day, looking for water and game and dead people, trying to keep our own group from having to witness more than they need to.
Gabriella’s Journal
18 SEPTEMBER 1846
Owen has devised a schedule he says will benefit both us and the livestock. We travel throughout the night and sleep for three or four hours just before sunrise, while the air is cool and still. We are all exhausted and have no trouble falling asleep. When the growing heat of early day arrives, we wake to travel until midafternoon, when the heat has built to its zenith. We get what rest we can until late evening, when the sun is falling, then resume our march.
Traveling at night has proved to be much more comfortable than I expected. The cool wind helps me forget my thirst, but I don’t believe it does much for the children. As acting grandmother to Pearl and Katie, Millie has taught them every trick she knows to help their suffering, including sucking on pebbles and telling them stories throughout each night as we travel.
The moon shines brightly through these strange and testing nights. The rocks and brush stand out in the distance like black ghosts. Nearer the wagons, trotting coyotes often appear, and after watching the struggling oxen, disappear into the surrounding shadows and lift their noses to the starlit sky to yap and howl.
Owen says they seem to know which of the livestock is nearest death, and when the carcass is left behind, gain their meals with no exertion. The men strip the best cuts of meat, lean and sparse as they are, and the women cook them without complaint. The coyotes devour what’s left, with some competition from vultures and crows, and leave the bones clean to bleach in the sun.
We have no trouble seeing where we must go, as the bones of oxen from the caravans ahead of us litter both sides of the trail. Even during the latest of midnight hours, the moonlight gleams off the skulls and rib cages that lie contorted on the desert floor.
The packed ground is in places as smooth and hard as porcelain. Had we sufficient food and water, tramping through this stark wilderness would be an interesting experience. Instead, we wonder if there will be even one oxen left before we reach good grass and water.
Many of the emigrants have ta
ken to feeding their oxen the straw stuffing from their mattresses. They dole it out a little at a time and find that it gives the animals some strength.
The horses seem to fare much better. They are not pulling wagons and have not been ridden during our march. I lead Whistler behind me and the little pony keeps a stronger stride. I feel certain he has seen times equally stressful, perhaps with an Indian war party crossing another desert, or at the end of a bitter winter when the grass was gone and the temperatures low.
Owen continuously tells me stories of mountain men and survival during freezing winter storms or crossing wastelands under a blazing summer sun.
“The trails into California and the Gila country are all tough and without grass or water,” he has said. “I’ve sucked the pulp from many a cactus to stay alive.”
Though I suppose I could stomach eating a lizard or a rattlesnake if my life depended on it, I’m not certain I would resort to eating my moccasins and doeskin dress. But then I’ve never gone without food for nearly a week.
I have no fear of dying while with Owen. He knows too many tricks of survival. The other morning, near a dried-up streambed, he noticed a bulge in the sand. After digging a short way down he pulled out a large skin bag filled with pemmican.
“You can find these at almost every stream crossing, if you know what to look for,” he said. “During times of plenty, the Indians bury these so that when the pickings become sparse, they’ll have a food supply to fall back on.”
Most of the emigrants had tasted pemmican somewhere along the trail. Many declined, as they said the sweet taste would only heighten their thirst. Owen told them the dried berries would provide good nutrition, but didn’t press the issue.
Of course Rufus and Jake would have eaten the entire bag if given the chance. Pearl and Katie gave them small bites and Rufus was warned repeatedly to be gentle when taking the offering. He has a tendency to snatch quickly and gulp, often not concerned about the tips of someone’s fingers.
Though none of us has eaten enough for some time, or received sufficient water, we’re faring far better than anyone who might choose to negotiate this trail only during daylight hours. The darkness has its drawbacks, however.
Owen has told all parents to be certain that any children walking alongside the wagons are wearing shoes. If they have no shoes or theirs are worn through, they are to stay in the wagons, as scorpions are everywhere. These odd creatures look to me much like large spiders with crab claws and long tails that curl up over their backs. Some are small and white and others very large and coal-black, with all kinds of variation in size and color in between. They scurry about after the sun falls and can produce a terrible sting. Owen says the smallest are the deadliest, and you must shake out your shoes and boots after leaving them on the ground for any length of time.
Of even more concern than the scorpions are the rattlesnakes. They are active at night as well, but are more inclined to stay away from the trail. They sense the vibration of our approach and slither the other way. I have already seen a number of them, one very large with a broad head and a diamond pattern on its back. It was swallowing a large rat. Sean Malone shot the reptile and measured the length of its body to be seven feet three inches long.
This morning just after sunrise, as we were getting ready to camp, the McCords’ little white terrier rushed off after a jackrabbit. Pearl ran calling after her pet, her father close behind.
We heard a scream and a pistol shot. In but a few moments, Silas McCord was carrying his daughter back to camp. Blood oozed from two puncture wounds just above her ankle.
“That rattler was huge,” Silas said. “Larger than the one Sean shot.”
Silas was beside himself with worry. Katie broke into tears and Guynema Rowe, who hadn’t said two words to anybody for the better part of the week, appeared with Henrietta under her arm.
“Lay your daughter down on the ground,” she said to Silas.
She ordered him again and when Pearl was still, Guynema quickly cut the chicken’s stomach open and placed the protruding intestines against the snakebite.
“Everyone leave me be,” she said to the silent crowd. “I’ve done this before.”
Owen said he had seen a Shoshone Indian perform the same feat with a grouse to save his own life. His son had caught one in a snare and as he had reached down to catch the bird, he was struck by a rattlesnake. The live grouse’s entrails enveloped the wound on the warrior’s wrist and effectively absorbed the poison.
Pearl lay still while Mrs. Rowe held her dying hen to the wound. In but a few minutes poor Henrietta had expired. Her entrails were green with poison, and though the girl became nauseated, she never approached death. After a short time she was up and around, scolding her dog for running off.
Mrs. Rowe buried Henrietta alongside the trail. I stood with her and told her what a great thing she had done by saving Pearl McCord’s life. She said she was pleased to have been of help, though she didn’t know where she would find another hen like Henrietta.
“There was no decision to make, though,” she told me. “That girl’s life was in certain danger.”
Other women came to thank her for what she had done, and Silas McCord offered her anything he had that she might want.
“I just want you to watch those two girls closer,” she said. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to have kids.”
“My girls have learned to cook and sew some,” Silas offered. “They can be of help to you. And if you’ll trust me, I’d be happy to cut your hair for free anytime you’d like.”
Mrs. Rowe smiled. “I guess I could use that.”
As he cut her hair, Silas offered to allow Mrs. Rowe to sleep in the wagon with the girls. He had been sleeping out on the ground anyway and said that the extra space was being wasted. She said she would consider it.
After her haircut, Guynema Rowe walked into the desert and returned with a sprig of blackbrush. She cut the outer layers off the stem and gave the McCord girls the inner cambium. They chewed it and declared it sweet and tasty.
I had tasted cottonwood gum and found this to be similar, if not a little coarser. It would do for a desert situation where every bit of nourishment helped.
I was pleased to see that Mrs. Rowe wasn’t turning me away and no longer referred to me as the devil’s child.
“I know how you did it,” she said. “You took something I own, like a hairbrush, and held it in your hand, didn’t you?”
I admitted I had taken her hairbrush and apologized for not getting her permission first.
“My grandmother could do that,” she said. “She could know all about you from a button or a thimble. But she didn’t know how a person looked when they were young.”
“I can’t explain it,” I said. “It’s always been there.”
“I’m sorry I burned the painting,” she murmured. “Will you do another?”
I agreed that when we reached the mountain, I would do many more. As it is now, I’m so thirsty most of the time that I would rather drink the watercolors than paint them across a parchment.
THE SISKIYOU
Quincannon’s Journal
25 SEPTEMBER 1846
The Oregon mountains have called for nearly a week, and through the distant haze, they have become a reality. Water on the breeze this morning brought every oxen’s head up and they strained in their traces, bellowing to be freed.
I wouldn’t allow them to be released, though it was a pity to watch them yearn for refreshment. Had they taken off at the first smell of freshness, they would have collapsed well short of their goal.
There is enough water here to keep us going until we can reach the lake region and stop for good grazing. I have been waiting for this for over a month and so has everyone else. No one could deprive us of it.
But a surprise awaited us as we drew within sight of the stream. A line of marching men appeared, with a man on a black stallion leading them. Ella mounted her pinto and rode up to where I sat watching.
“Without a doubt,” I told her.
“How did he get here?” she asked.
“I suppose we’ll know soon enough,” I said. “You should stay out of the line of fire.”
“I won’t let you face them alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” I assured her. “Tell the Kentuckians to ready their long rifles.”
Garr ordered his men into a long line. As they stood at attention, I counted but seventy-two. I knew there had once been closer to a hundred of his soldiers and I wondered where the others were.
I searched around to see if more were flanking us, but the desert was bare.
I rode within earshot of Edward Garr and asked him what he thought he was doing.
“You’ll turn around and go back!” he yelled. “In the name of the British Crown!”
“We’re set to unhitch oxen,” I warned. “Get out of the way or get run over.”
“You are receiving your last warning, Mr. Quincannon,” Garr replied. “I’ll have no more discussion.”
“I’m thirsty,” I said. “I’m coming ahead.”
“Prepare to fire!” Garr yelled. He dismounted and leveled his rifle on me.
I kicked Parker into motion just before the shot came. The ball whizzed past me and I could see Garr reloading.
Back at the wagons, Sean Malone and the Kentuckians had taken position. Seeing the soldiers readying their weapons, they quickly opened fire.
Garr’s soldiers began to fall, kicking and screaming like babies. After another round from our long rifles, they ran toward the timber like so many rabbits.
But Garr wouldn’t be stopped and again leveled his rifle at me. Before he could pull the trigger, a ball slammed into the stock, shattering it and causing a misfire. In the distance I could see the men cheering for Guynema Rowe.
I charged Garr on my pony and he quickly mounted his stallion to retreat with the survivors, leaving his dead and wounded soldiers behind. I saw no purpose in wearing my buckskin down chasing after him.