“Things look a lot different from up here,” said Emmalee. While walking, she hadn’t been able to see much more than the few wagons ahead of her own and the few wagons behind. But now, seated behind Randy atop the big horse, she saw the immense length of the column and sensed the human dimensions of hope and risk and wonder. These high-wheeled, creaking Conestogas were ships that sailed a sea of grass, wagons that held within their wooden boxes the worldly goods of all who ventured forth upon the sea, crude but sturdy vehicles that cradled and sustained a firmament of dreams. This was a voyage, and a hard one; Emmalee felt deeply proud to be part of it.
“How are you making it, Emmalee?” asked Randy, over his shoulder.
“Oh, pretty well. The boots I bought in St. Joe are holding up all right. So far.”
“‘So far’ is about as good as the news gets on a trip like this. Or so I’m told.”
Emmalee laughed. “That’s good. Who told you that?”
“The new scout. The one Mr. Torquist hired just before we left Missouri.”
Emmalee stiffened slightly. “What new scout?” she asked. In the frenzied bustle of getting the wagon train ready to roll, of carrying out the hundred and one tasks Myrtle had levied, Emmalee hadn’t had the time to reflect very much upon scouts of any kind. She’d simply assumed that the shrewd and suspicious Horace Torquist would immediately perceive Garn for what he was—an irresponsible adventurer!—and throw him out of the encampment forthwith. Also, Garn was violent, while Torquist claimed to be a man of God. Guns and ideals did not mix too well.
Emmalee had confessed to herself, however—confessed only briefly, and then absolved herself quickly—that Garn’s kiss back in St. Joe had actually been quite pleasant. And she’d found herself flattered in response to his remark that she was “different.” Well, I am, aren’t I? she thought. Making my way west, all by myself!
But she’d also figured—or rationalized—that the touch of his lips had been nice only because she hadn’t kissed anyone since Val Jannings last January. It had nothing to do with that arrogant Garn Landar.
Emmalee wondered if Randy Clay thought she was “different” in a compelling or attractive sort of way.
“What new scout is that?” she heard herself asking Randy.
“You don’t know? Why, he’s the talk of the train! Apparently he showed up just a couple of days before we pulled out of St. Joe and convinced Mr. Torquist that there were all kinds of disasters lying in wait for us on the trail. He also promised Torquist that he’d see to it that we get to Denver and Olympia before Burt Pennington does.”
Randy hadn’t mentioned the name of this scout, but Emmalee already knew that it was Garn Landar. She recognized without effort the form and substance of his insouciant braggadocio. And she was amazed that Torquist had fallen for it.
“He’s quite a guy,” Randy was saying. “It’s rumored that he’s crossed the Great Plains fifteen times. Eight times across the Rockies. Supposed to be marked cards and weighted dice in his saddlebags. And it’s said that he had to get out of Missouri on the quick because he killed and gutted some black man on board a riverboat in Hannibal.”
Oh, God! thought Emmalee. She shuddered.
“Hey! What’s the matter?” Randy asked.
“Just slipped a little. I’m fine.”
“Well, Mr. Torquist made it plain to him, just like he does to everybody. The new scout’s got to toe the line, or he’s out. I admire Mr. Torquist for his ideals, don’t you? He’s the glue holding us all together. Once we reach Olympia, the ranchers will begin fighting among themselves as they always do, but Mr. Torquist, with his personal strength and his command of virtue, will see us through to stability and success. We farmers are different.”
Randy sounded absolutely convinced. Nor could Emmalee doubt the inner conviction she’d perceived in the wagon-master. The only thing that surprised her was that the rigid Torquist had actually hired Garn Landar!
“You said this…this new scout…?”
“Landar,” offered Randy helpfully.
“He’s promised to get us to Denver ahead of Pennington? I thought the important thing was to reach Olympia first?”
“That too. But we have to re-outfit in Denver. Who knows how many wagons and animals we’ll lose by the time we get there? Supplies are limited. The train that reaches Denver first will best be able to climb the Rockies.”
There was a long silence, during which Emmalee sensed that Randy had not come here to tell her about hardships along the trail. The wagon train rolled along, dust rose and fell. Emmalee, with her hands linked around Randy’s waist, felt his breathing quicken slightly.
“Em,” he said, “there’s a big meeting around the campfire tonight. Mr. Torquist wants everyone to be there.”
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”
He turned to look at her. “Would you…would you sit with me? I’d like to spend a little time with you.”
There was a touch of sweet shyness to his request. Emmalee was charmed.
“Maybe we can…talk a bit after Mr. Torquist is through,” Randy said.
Emmalee was more than pleased. She remembered her first glimpse of Randy, the tender concern she’d seen in his eyes on the day he’d accidentally run her down. And everyone spoke highly of him. She wouldn’t mind spending time with him at all.
“Sounds grand to me,” she responded enthusiastically. “I’m getting so tired of plodding along beside these…these damn horses…”
“You ought to try driving oxen if you think this is bad. What else has Myrtle got you assigned to?”
“At night I’m supposed to be a seamstress. Did you ever try to sew anything in campfire light?”
“No, ma’am. I never tried to sew anything at all.”
“Well, Myrtle said she might have another job for me real soon. I hope so. It can’t be any worse.”
Randy didn’t say anything for a little while. Then he half-turned, looked her in the eyes, and asked, “Is it true that you signed some sort of two-year deal with Mr. Torquist?”
“That’s right. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious,” Randy replied, with a rather woebegone expression. “Well, I guess I got to be riding on. Have to tell everybody about the meeting tonight.”
He helped Emmalee down from the horse, and she returned to the trudging grind beside the Conestoga. How far had she walked already? A hundred and fifty miles, for sure. That meant a little less or a little more than a thousand to go, not counting the additional effort required in crossing the mountains. Some people, she knew, sneaked aboard the Conestogas and slept as the wagons rolled. Myrtle Higgins usually routed them out, to their considerable humiliation. Well, human beings could stand quite a lot of humiliation, particularly if they got a little shut-eye in the trade-off.
Myrtle Higgins, on her mule, came riding down the line from the head of the train. Emmalee’s wagon was approximately in the middle of the march; Horace Torquist’s led the way; driven cattle and laggard Conestogas brought up the rear.
“Horace wants to see you, girl,” Myrtle announced through the scarf she wore over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. “Jump up on Ned here and I’ll take you up to see him.”
Myrtle was one of the very few people on the train who called Torquist Horace even to his face.
“What does he want?” Emmalee asked, pulling herself up on the ornery animal, who kicked out at her and even tried to turn and give her a nip as she mounted, a protest against the added burden it would have to carry. Myrtle slapped it in the jawbone for discipline and jerked the bit back into the beast’s mouth, sawing hard on the reins. Ned had no choice but to defer to her wishes, and began to plod lugubriously on toward the head of the train.
“Did Mr. Torquist say what he wanted?” Emmalee asked again, somewhat more anxiously. In spite of all the respect he commanded, Emmalee felt uncomfortable with the wagonmaster.
“He didn’t say. But I expect it’s that new job I
was telling you about. I don’t want to gab about what I think, but I reckon, if you play your cards right, there might be a little money in it for you.”
“Oh, really?” Emmalee’s apprehension lessened, and her enthusiasm increased.
“Don’t count no chickens. Wait and see. Bye-the-bye, I met Randy Clay as I was riding down to fetch you, and he looked just about as happy as a clam. Couldn’t be that he’s meetin’ you at the campfire tonight, could it?”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
Myrtle snorted derisively. “You know,” she said, “I ain’t much to look at anymore, but I wasn’t all that bad, so quite a bunch of men were wise enough to tell me, and I was even your age once. But don’t you think you have a chip on your shoulder?”
“Myrtle, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t. Then you’re in worse shape than I figured. You think you’re all alone in the world, or what? There’s men on the train complainin’ that you won’t even give ’em the time of day.”
“That’s not true. I try to be polite to everyone. And as for being alone, well, I guess I am. I’ve had a pretty hard time…”
“Sure. About your pa and ma dyin’ and all. Well, I’m sorry. But you know young Randy Clay has eyes for you. I figure he’s gonna do more than all right for himself when we get to Olympia, claim land, and get settled.”
“I know that, but—”
“And there’s this scout who signed on…”
“Garn Landar? Myrtle, never! You have no idea what he’s like!”
“Do you?”
“I certainly do. Do you?”
“Well, not hardly. I don’t claim to. But what I’m tryin’ to tell you is that it don’t hurt to give these things a look-see. Don’t be so fast to say no, even if the horse looks like it can’t go the mile, get my drift? Things look a damn sight different at my age than at yours. Keep it in mind. Bein’ alone in this world is no picnic.”
“I guess I’ve had to learn to be.”
“Sure. I understand that. But keep your options open. You know, when I was about your age, this was in Indiana, I had me a choice. There was Sven, this really fine man, honest as the day is long, owned his own farm, and everybody liked him. And there was William, worked as a clerk in the county courthouse and read law on the side. Girl, he was a man with words, sharp as a whip, he could talk your petticoats off. They was both of them madly in love with me.”
“What did you do?”
“I anguished and I agonized; I agonized and I prayed. Sven or William, William or Sven.”
“Which one did you finally choose?”
“Neither. Sven got tired of waitin’ an’ got hitched to Sally Bundrem from South Bend. Got him a huge farm and seventeen grandkids now. William, he went on to be elected governor and married a rich girl from Memphis. Later on I married a real charming charlatan who gambled most of his money away, and what he didn’t gamble he drank away. Died two years ago. That’s why I’m here, to start over. Oh, he was a sweetheart in some ways, but I lost a better life because I didn’t make a choice.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” said Emmalee.
They were catching up to Torquist’s wagon now, and Emmalee could see him leaning forward in the wagon seat, his very posture suggesting a vast, implacable impatience.
“There you are, Emmalee,” he called. “Climb up here next to me for a minute, would you?”
Myrtle swung the mule in close to the wagonmaster’s Conestoga. Emmalee grabbed hold of the seat and pulled herself onto the moving vehicle. Torquist lent her a hand.
“Thanks, Myrtle,” Emmalee called, as the old woman turned the mule and rode away.
“Well, Emmalee,” said Torquist. “You’re a little bit dusty but otherwise no worse for the wear.”
Even Torquist had to face the dust raised by his own horses. But being first in the column had distinct advantages. Across the Great Plains, Emmalee could see the swirling dust of the Pennington train. And far out ahead of the Torquist company she saw the scouts riding. Garn would be among them. He breathed less dust than Torquist. Emmalee indulged herself in a moment of resentment. Scouts also got extra rations. Garn! A man like that always found a quick, cheap easy way to get a better deal than anybody else!
“You’ll recall our conversation in the tent, Emmalee?” Horace Torquist was asking. “I inquired if you’d had any experience that might prove useful to us and you said you’d taken care of sick people?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The reason I bring it up is because, riding in the wagon just behind us, there’s an old acquaintance of mine from Galena, Ohio, days, Ebenezer Creel. He and his wife joined the train late, and for tragic reasons, I’m afraid. She’s very ill, and they hope that the clean, pure air of Olympia will help her to get better. At any rate, Ebenezer is too old to take care of her all the time, and I want you to do it.”
Torquist was not asking her; he was telling her. Emmalee wondered what malady afflicted Mrs. Creel. She hoped it wasn’t anything contagious.
“Do you want me to start taking care of her today?”
“Thank you, Emmalee. I knew you’d be cooperative.”
“Well, I am working for you now,” she said.
“Oh, no,” disagreed the wagonmaster. “Your term of indenture begins once we reach Olympia. That’s clearly stated in the contract we both signed…”
Emmalee recalled, with sharp rue, her hasty signing of the contract. She’d been too distracted by the prospect of two year’s worth of bondage to scan the details.
“I see,” said Emmalee coldly. There was nothing she could do. “I’ll go and make myself known to the Creels now,” she began, getting ready to jump down from the wagon and recalling Myrtle’s hint that there might be some reward in this new job. She wondered now just what Myrtle had meant.
“Hold on just a second!” cried Torquist, interrupting her and grabbing her shoulder before she had a chance to leave the wagon. “Can you make out what’s going on up there?”
Emmalee followed his eyes. Up ahead on the green, rolling Kansas prairie, the mounted band of scouts was galloping back toward the wagon train.
“Looks like the scouts are heading back this way,” Emmalee replied. She felt faintly excited. For a moment, she thought that her reaction was due to the prospect of something interesting or unusual about to happen. Then she realized that she was anticipating a glimpse of Garn Landar. You’ve grown dull-witted marching along with this train, she scolded herself. Don’t be a silly goose.
The scouts came riding hard and reined their prancing mounts to a walk alongside their boss’s wagon. The glossy flanks of the beasts rippled and quivered. Emmalee studied the scouts with interest: four hard, lean men whose eyes held few illusions. Their job was to keep wagon trains safe, and to do so they’d have to survive innumerable crossings of the Great Plains. Those treks had taken their toll: The scouts were flinty and cold-blooded.
Randy Clay, who sometimes rode with them, was not present. Neither was Garn Landar.
“What is it, men?” asked Torquist, betraying a touch of anxiety. This was unusual for him. In order to keep his followers calm, he invariably projected an air of paternal confidence.
One of the scouts spat out a greasy brown streak of tobacco juice and pointed toward the horizon.
“Burt Pennington and his train’ve swung north off the trail, boss. We can’t figure out why he’d want to do a thing like that. It’s gonna delay him, no doubt about it. It’s rougher country up there.”
Horace Torquist, Emmalee, and the scouts all studied that moving cloud of dust in the distance. It was indeed drifting to the north. Since the wind hadn’t shifted direction, the obvious conclusion was that the ranchers were on an inexplicable course that would slow them considerably.
“Got any surmises on that, Cassidy?” Torquist asked.
“Mebbe Pennington run into some trouble we don’t know about. He could be striking north toward Belleville.
It’s the only town hereabouts. Still, it don’t make sense.”
“Where’s Landar?” the wagonmaster asked.
“He wanted to ride on ahead and see what was up,” said a second scout, somewhat sarcastically. “Could be he wants to fix himself up a deal with Pennington.”
The scouts laughed mirthlessly, a hoarse, guttural snicker. Emmalee realized that they did not care for Garn.
“I’m sure he’ll be back when he finds out…” said Emmalee, without thinking. All eyes turned toward her, toward this inexperienced young girl who was, without apparent reason, defending Garn. She was surprised at herself too. “…when he finds out what he wants to know,” she finished weakly.
“Yuh!” Cassidy grunted, and spat some more tobacco juice.
Torquist shot Emmalee a quick, odd glance. Then his characteristically somber expression gave way to a look of cautious optimism.
“Well, we’ll hear from Landar in due time, I suppose,” he said. “But this may be the break we’ve been waiting for. Pennington is going to fall behind, mark my words. I want you to ride down the line and tell all the drivers to pick up the pace. We’re pushing on. We’ll discuss our situation tonight at the campfire.”
Ebenezer Creel was a crotchety, bony seventy-year-old whose first words to Emmalee when she climbed into his Conestoga were: “So you’re the one who sold her soul to Horace Torquist!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Emmalee, startled not only by the old man’s query but also by the interior of the wagon itself. Arranged as if it were a small house or cabin, with binlike shelves built into the sides of the wagonbox, this traveling home also had two hammocks, a bureau with a real mirror attached to it, and a bust of Jefferson Davis bolted to the top of the bureau. Likenesses of the former Confederate President had been pretty hard to find since the Civil War ended in April of 1865.
The Passionate and the Proud Page 8