“You can never tell about things like that. He’s a good man. Better than some in this train. Now, you let me fix that soup, and you roast this tongue.”
* * *
FROM THE TOP OF Independence Rock, they could see the flat valley. Zamora’s cheeks were brightened by the sun and by the brisk wind.
“This is beautiful, Casey.”
“It is. Let’s see if I can find my name.” He had to hunt for a while. “It’s kind of weathered, but there I am. C. Tremayne.” He studied the name. “I think I’ll dig it out a little bit. Make it last a little longer.”
Zamora watched as he deepened the letters, and then she said, “Put my name there under yours, or let me do it.”
“Let me.” He began banging at the chisel with the hammer he had brought, and soon he had inscribed her name—Zamora Krisova. “I think I’ll put the date between them here. August the thirtieth, 1854.” When he finished, the two looked down on it.
“It’s almost like a grave, isn’t it?” she said.
Startled, Tremayne asked, “What do you mean, Zamora?”
“Well, that’s what happens. We put people in the ground, sometimes we put a stone over it with their name on it and something about them. I saw some very old tombstones in the old country. Some of them three hundred years old.”
“Would you like to go back over there?”
“No, there’s nothing for me there.”
Finally Tremayne shook his head almost sadly, “There should be more to a man than a few scratches on a rock.”
“There is more.”
She moved closer to him so that her arm was brushing his. Startled, he turned and looked down at her. She was dark and exotic, unlike any woman Tremayne had seen before. Her lips were full at the center. Her hair was dark as the night itself. She wore a crimson kerchief, as she usually did, and from her ears two pearl pendants gracefully dangled. A blend of qualities in this woman attracted Casey almost each time he saw her—pride, honesty, and her deep, mysterious grace of heart and body. And he realized these elements stirred his hunger for the things a woman brought to a man. Her eyes were on his.
He said huskily, “A man wants something out of life, and I’m not sure what it is.”
Zamora whispered, “We have to take what pleasure we can from life.”
Her words seemed to echo his thoughts. He possessed all the hungers a strong individual can have, and suddenly she was there, and he read the invitation in her eyes. He reached forward, pulled her to him, and kissed her, and as he did, he felt her response and knew that Zamora’s loneliness equaled his own. He released her and started to speak, but he heard a sound and turned to see Charity Morgan who had followed the same path up the rock. Awkwardly, Tremayne stepped back, for there was something in Charity’s face like contempt, and he knew she had seen him embracing Zamora.
“Helen Wingate is having her baby,” Charity said. “Her husband says she’s not doing well. You might go see if there’s anything you can do.”
“You’re right. I’ll go now.”
He turned to Zamora, who shrugged and said, “Go on, Casey. I can get back.”
He left at once, and Zamora turned to Charity. She saw distaste in the other woman’s eyes and something else she couldn’t identify. “You didn’t like what you saw?” she demanded.
“It’s not my affair.”
“I think it might be. You have eyes for him. I’m not blind.”
“You’re wrong, Zamora.”
“He’s not for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s a man of flesh and blood.”
“Of course he is. What do you mean by that?” Charity demanded.
“You want a holy man.”
Charity was startled by her words. “Well, I want a man who knows God. I wouldn’t have any other kind.”
The two women stared at each other, and then Zamora smiled a bitter, cynical smile. There was triumph in it though. “You’ll never have him, Charity. You’re not woman enough for him.”
“And you are?”
Zamora didn’t answer. She merely laughed and started down the trail. Charity watched her go and then saw the letters carved in the stone—“C. Tremayne and Zamora Krisova.” Something about the names carved into the rock disturbed her, but she couldn’t think why. Slowly she turned and made her way down the mountainside.
* * *
“HOW IS SHE?” TREMAYNE demanded when Gwilym met him.
“Her husband says she’s not doing well.”
Neither of them knew what to say. Finally Tremayne muttered, “It’s bad to be helpless, isn’t it, Gwilym?”
Gwilym Morgan didn’t answer for a moment, then he lifted his head. “God’s not helpless,” he said finally. “I’ll get the men to pray.”
The train’s attention was centered on the one wagon where Wingate was trying to help his wife. The cries of the woman seemed to go through Tremayne. He had heard cries of agony before, but these cries were weak and feeble, and Tremayne had a dark picture in his mind of what was happening. Marzina Cole appeared with her husband, Nolan. Nolan was half drunk, as usual, and he gave one look at the wagon, snorted, and walked away. Nolan’s callousness always incensed Tremayne. The woman is too good for him, he always thought.
“I hope Helen makes it,” he said quietly.
Marzina Cole was holding her baby, a healthy, rosy-cheeked boy with the long name of Benjamin. “It frightens me, Tremayne.”
“It’s awful being helpless. If we could only do something.”
But there was nothing to do, and finally Marzina said, “My husband has no sympathy for weakness. You know what he said when he heard Helen Wingate was having trouble? He said, ‘If it’s her time, she’ll die.’”
Tremayne bristled. He had never heard the woman speak against her husband, although everyone on the train knew she had just cause. Everyone was aware he abused her. Tremayne had seen the marks on her face where Cole had struck her. It infuriated him, but he had had to suppress his anger, knowing their relationship was not his business. He couldn’t think of any response, and then he asked, “How did you happen to marry him, Marzina?”
“My father arranged it.”
That was not uncommon, Tremayne knew, but something in the weariness of her voice pulled at Tremayne’s sympathy. She’s left so much unsaid. He reached out and touched the silky hair of the baby, who had dark hair like his mother. “You’ve got two fine children.”
“Yes, I do.”
She would have said more, perhaps, but at that moment Wingate stepped out of the wagon. Tremayne took one look at his face and knew everything. He saw York’s hopelessness, grief, and absolute futility.
“She’s gone,” Wingate said.
“The baby?” Marzina asked quickly.
“It’s a boy. I think he’ll be all right, but how in God’s name will I take care of him?”
Marzina stepped forward and put her hand on York Wingate’s arm. “I will care for him, Dr. Wingate. I’ll nurse him along with Benjamin. God will take care of him.”
Wingate’s eyes went to the woman, and the tears suddenly ran down his cheeks. “That’s—that’s kind of you.”
Wanting to help, Casey Tremayne said, “I’ll take care of your wife, Dr. Wingate. I know a place beside the river where she can rest. We’ll put a stone there and carve her name in it.”
“Thank you, Tremayne.” He returned to the wagon and came back, bearing the child. Holding him out, he said nothing as Marzina Cole took him.
“What will your husband say?”
“It doesn’t matter. I promise you your son will be cared for. I don’t suppose he has a name?”
“His name will be David. That was her choice. Almost her last words.”
“Come, David. I’ll care for you.”
The two men watched Marzina turn away, “Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Wingate?” Tremayne asked.
Wingate stared at Tremayne with tears running unheeded
down his cheeks. “There’s very little any one of us can do for another, but you’re kind. And that woman, Mrs. Cole, is kind.” He tried to say something else, shook his head, and turned away.
Eager to have something to do, Tremayne found Charterhouse and Billy Watson.
“Get some shovels, Billy. We’ve got to dig a grave for Mrs. Wingate.”
Chapter Sixteen
GWILYM MORGAN STOOD WITH his Bible in his hand. A silence fell over the crowd that had gathered for the funeral of Helen Wingate. A rough coffin had been built with spare lumber, and it stood beside the stark hole the men had dug.
Tremayne had helped to dig the grave, and he stood at the back of the crowd. He kept his eyes on York Wingate, but, for the most part, he was listening intently to Morgan.
Morgan said quietly, “You’ve read the story of how Jairus, the ruler of a synagogue, came to beg Jesus to come and heal his daughter. Jesus agreed, and when they reached the house of Jairus, he was met by servants who told him that his daughter had already died. I wonder how many of us would have given up at that moment? Death is so final to some but not to Jesus. Jesus said, ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’”
Gwilym looked out over the crowd with sorrow in his eyes. “That, my dear friends, is always the Word of God to any whose heart is broken. ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’ And then the story goes on as I will read for you:”
And he cometh to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, and seeth the tumult, and them that wept and wailed greatly.
And when he was come in, he saith unto them, Why make ye this ado, and weep? the damsel is not dead, but sleepeth.
And they laughed him to scorn. But when he had put them all out, he taketh the father and the mother of the damsel, and them that were with him, and entereth in where the damsel was lying.
And he took the damsel by the hand, and said unto her, Tal-i-tha cu-mi; which is, being interpreted, Damsel, I say unto thee, arise.
And straightway the damsel arose, and walked; for she was of the age of twelve years. And they were astonished with a great astonishment.
Morgan lifted his eyes from the Bible, and his voice was strong, “In this case the damsel came back from the dead at once. That, of course, is what we always would like to see. That’s what we’d like to see for this dear sister. We want that for those who cross over, but God’s timing is not ours. Sometimes, in His infinite wisdom, He takes from us that which we love best. We will know why someday, I believe. But in this life we cannot know. But I believe that Jesus gave us the truth about all death when He said, ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’
“Helen Wingate will rise again. All who have taken Jesus Christ into their hearts will rise again.”
Tremayne felt a stirring in his spirit—the same sort of stirring he had felt when Morgan preached the sermon that had so moved him. He kept his eyes fixed on the faces of the believers. He saw a victory there that most men would miss, and he knew, somehow, that the word from the Scripture had entered into his own heart. He felt the presence of God, and at that moment he knew that somewhere soon, perhaps, he would meet God.
The funeral ceremonies were short. Scriptures were read, and then the body was lowered into the earth. The grave was filled in, and York Wingate turned and walked away. He was joined by Gwilym Morgan who put his arm around the man and was murmuring as they left.
For some reason Casey Tremayne felt chained to the spot. Everyone was gone, or so he thought, and he began to walk around the clearing. Hearing a sound, he turned and found Charity approaching him. She stopped in front of him, and he saw tears in her eyes.
“I feel so sorry for Dr. Wingate.”
“So do I, but your father said, if he’s right, this woman is in a better place than she had here.”
“Do you believe that, Casey?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t understand it,” he said in a low tone, “but I believe it.”
The two walked on silently. Finally Tremayne said, “Look, there’s another grave.” The two moved forward, and they saw a board sticking up out of the ground. It had been carved, but the weather had nearly destroyed it. Tremayne saw the outline of what had been the grave, but it was almost gone. He began to trace the outline digging a crease in the earth with the toe of his boot. Charity watched and was somehow moved at the sight.
“We do that, don’t we? Try to keep death from being final.” Her voice was gentle, he looked up, and she added, “I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have God to look to.”
Tremayne gave her a straight look, nodded, and said, “I envy you, Charity.” He turned away. “Well, life has to go on. Come on, let’s get back to the train.”
* * *
TWO NIGHTS LATER AFTER setting up camp, Tremayne ate supper with the Morgans. Later he asked, “How many of you would like to have some ice-cold lemonade?”
Meredith, sitting next to him, gave him a direct look. “We don’t have any ice here. We’ve got some lemons, but that won’t make them cold.”
“Meredith, do you believe I can get ice for you out here in this desert?” His eyes were filled with fun, for he was always amused by the youngest Morgan girl.
“I don’t know, but if you say so, I’ll believe you, Casey.”
“Mr. Tremayne,” Gwilym Morgan smiled. “Learn some manners, girl.”
“That’s all right. I was called that a long time before I even knew my last name,” Tremayne said. “Come along.” He rose, walked to the wagon, and found a pick. Walking a few feet away, he began to dig at the ground. They all gathered around him.
Bronwen asked, “What are you digging a hole for?”
“That’s the way I make lemonade.”
“That’s foolish!” Bronwen said. “You can’t do that.”
As she spoke, the tip of the pick hit something, and Evan said, “I believe you’ve hit ground or rock there.”
They all watched as Tremayne swung the pickax and then he reached down and brought something up. “Look at this.” They all gathered around.
Charity reached out and touched it. “Why,” she exclaimed, “it’s cold!”
They all had to touch, and Casey said, “This is called the Ice Trough. We’re up high here. Don’t know why, but there’s always ice only a few feet down. Why don’t we wash this off and make some lemonade?”
The next few minutes were filled with excitement as Casey and Evan dug up plenty of ice. It had to be washed off carefully, but when water, lemons, and sugar were added, they all sat by their campfire, sipping lemonade.
Casey winked at Meredith, “There. You see? No one ever went broke betting on Casey Tremayne and his famous lemonade trick.”
“What comes next?” Evan asked.
“A big decision, Evan. We’ve got to decide whether to take the shortcut that lies up ahead of us. It’s called the Sublette Cutoff. We’ll have to have everybody vote on this.” He got up and disappeared into the night.
When he was gone, Meredith said, “I bet you didn’t think he could do it, did you, Charity?”
“No, I doubted him, but he did.”
“I may marry him when I grow up,” Meredith said.
“Don’t be foolish!” Bronwen snapped. “He’s too old for you.”
“I don’t care. By the time I’m old enough to get married, he won’t be much older than me.”
* * *
THE VOTE WAS TAKEN the next day, and Casey answered quite a few questions. “It’s shorter,” he said finally, “and we’ll save a few days, but it’s rough going. Not much water. We may lose a few of the weaker stock.” He hesitated, then added, “Let me show you what lies ahead of us.” He located a sheet of paper and quickly drew a crude map.
“Here we are, and we’ll be in Fort Hall soon, then Fort Boise, which will be the last settlement before we get to the Dalles—except for Fort Walla Walla. We’ll take a vote, but I’d say we take the shortcut. I think we can make it.” The consensus was to take the shortcut, for people were tired of the
trail.
After the meeting was over, Nolan Cole made his way back to his wagon. As soon as he got there, he saw Dr. York Wingate talking to Marzina. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“He just stopped by to see how David is.”
Nolan Cole had always been jealous. He hadn’t much true affection for his wife, but he was a man who liked to own things completely. He also had a considerable temper, and he snapped, “Stay away from my wife, Wingate!”
“Don’t be foolish,” Marzina said. “We’re taking care of his baby, and someone has to help.”
“You shut up, Marzina! You chase after every man you see.” He saw that his words cut her, and it pleased him. He turned to face Wingate. “I’m telling you now to stop seeing my wife!” He grabbed Wingate by the front of his shirt and said, “If I see you around here again, I’ll break your neck.”
“Let him go, Nolan. He’s not—” Cole suddenly turned and backhanded Marzina. She was holding the infant in her arms, and she fell backward, shielding him.
“Don’t take it out on her. It’s not her fault.”
“Get out of here!”
Wingate hesitated but knew Nolan couldn’t be reasoned with. He turned and walked away.
“Get up!” Nolan snapped. “If you’re going to take care of that brat, do it, but stay away from that man!”
Marzina knew her husband well. He had a dog-in-themanger attitude toward her and always had. She did not argue with him. Her face stung from the blow, and she simply turned and got into the wagon where she put the baby down. Then the tears began to run down her face.
* * *
IT DIDN’T TAKE THE members of the train long to feel the strain of Sublette Cutoff. The sun overhead grew as hot as a woodstove, throwing pale dry beams down on the oxen and cattle. The dogs even seemed to feel the strain, for they no longer dashed along, barking and chasing each other.
At times they’d travel far into the night, bumping over sagebrush and following the beds of old lakes that were now as dry as the dust itself that composed them. Each day they stopped and doled out water for the animals and turned them loose to graze on the sparsely covered floor of the desert. They breakfasted on dry meat and drank water so alkaline that when one had drunk his fill, his stomach seemed to swell. It was a hard time for all.
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