“What do you have trouble with, Will?” Phaegin snapped. “Why are you back here?”
Will looked pitiful. “I am a poor man and tempted by all manner of sin, but pained particularly by a certain proclivity for the Lord’s most fine handiwork without the means to support it.”
Curly nodded. “Wimmin.”
Will threw his head back. “Oh, the temptations of the flesh! Lord, save me from myself, and if you can’t deliver me from desire, make me rich enough to support a hundred wives!”
Curly was desperate to make good with Chin and spent every moment with her, stroking her back, scratching her ears. At night he slept fearlessly at her feet.
Phaegin and I, in our ruse as husband and wife, slept back to back in the blankets. The invisible yet steely barrier between us softened only in her sleeping hours.
That and not the chill was true torture. With the sighing regularity of sleeping breath, she nudged her backside against mine or spooned into my embrace, and me with no choice but to thrill and suffer, respond with no response, hope and despair. I prayed the nightly intimacies reflected her deep though unfathomed feeling for me. If so, in the daylit hours, I was unable to mine even a dusting of admiration from that abyss in which she apparently kept her regard. I woke each morning to find Phaegin cold and unrelenting, and the distance between us widened every day.
She made friends without me, abandoning me in order to hen with the other women of the company while Curly dogged Chin. I pulled the cart alone and without much conversation, but for Will. The other men of the train seemed not only wary of me but absolutely condescending. We sat at a lonely dinner one night and Will told me not to take it “personal.”
“Until you’s one of ’em, they won’ trust.”
“But Phaegin—”
“They kin see she’s none too happy with you,” he observed bluntly. “They’re figurin’ she might well be a sister one o’ these days.” He thought it over for a minute. “Don’ do you any good neither, talkin’ wif me. Collapsed so many times, I hardly have knees left. Makes you suspicious-like, hangin’ ’round with the low end of the stick.”
“But you’re Mormon.”
“Barely.” He sighed. “I owe ’em. Thirty year ago I was low down. Dad a damn drunk, Marm dead, wagon broke down, and me with the diaree. Shoulda died but they took me into Nauvoo. Never did make enough of m’self to be decent, but I was baptized and did my mission. Came this close to a marriage before I fell. Been risin’ and fallin’ like sourdough ever since.” He stirred the fire and leaned in. “Don’t recommend it to ever’one. There’s some who will profit and those who will pay.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, Will?” Hiram Ansel stood over us, Phaegin on his arm.
Will spoke amiably. “That there’s some who may hear the voice of the Lord, and they will be rewarded. Others are false, and to them will be borne a mighty and uncomfortable debt.”
Hiram nodded to me. “Escorting your wife home.” He gave her a small bow. “My wife welcomes your company.” He looked around. “Where is your son?”
I pointed into the moonlit prairie. “Wooing my horse.”
Phaegin smiled tightly. “Husband, call him in and say goodbye to your friend. It is time for sleep.”
Back-to-back that evening, the steely four inches again between us, I whispered over her silence, “Will told me something you need to know.”
“What?”
“A fellow just a month ago was found shot. He was a newcomer and they didn’t like him.”
“That’s foolishness. He and his partner were newcomers. And his partner killed him and ran off.”
“That’s what they say, I suppose. Are you going to believe them? Will says he was sniffing around some other man’s wife.”
“More like Will was sniffing around some other man’s wife. He’s crazy, Ned. They’ve put up with his craziness since he was a child.”
“I don’t think he’s the nut.”
“Think what you want.”
“I think Mr. Ansel has designs on you, that’s what I think. My wife welcomes your company?”
“Yes, Mr. Ansel’s wife and I like each other very well. She is a wonderful woman.”
“Which wife?”
“The only wife.”
“Come off it, he’s got four more in Salt Lake.”
“Who told you that, the trustworthy Will?” She snorted. “You better put air between you and him.”
“Why, they going to hang me for bein’ friendly?”
“Not if you’d be friendly to the right people.”
“Like Hiram Ansel?”
“Like anyone worth being friendly to.”
“I like Will.”
Phaegin flipped over and jabbed me in the chest. “Yeah, an’ you like Curly and Avelina, Professor Coal, and that Little Miss trouble, Lill Martine, too. Ned, cain’t you like anybody who won’t get you in trouble, who’s worth more’n a plugged nickel?”
“I liked you, Phaegin.”
I regretted the tense as soon as I’d said it. But I said nothing as she rolled away from me again.
As if to prove her right, Curly lodged himself neck deep in upset the following evening. I was under a juniper tree taking forty winks before supper. Phaegin was cooking with Mrs. Ansel.
The captain rang the bell to assemble the company, an unusual occurrence at that hour. When I arrived at the gathering point, the wagon train’s command was grouped around our cart. The side piece was pried off, and Dawbs’s women cavorted uninhibitedly along the plank. Brother Helms gripped a struggling Curly by the arm. As I approached, the captain intoned, “You have agreed to abide by our beliefs. Section thirty-eight: If any person import, print, publish, sell, or distribute any obscene prints, pictures, or descriptions manifestly tending to corrupt the morals of youth, he shall be punished by fine not exceeding four hundred dollars.”
“Four hundred dollars?” I was not really so worried. Unless Phaegin came clean about the cigars, they might as well squeeze water from a stone. Still, I could see they were fully stirred by the wagon and I stepped forward. “We came by this cart already in this condition and did our best to hide the obscenities on it.”
The captain spoke flatly. “He removed the planking.”
Curly looked miserable.
I shrugged. “Boys … will be curious. I’ll … punish him.”
The captain gave a small smile. “If it had been a small matter of prurient interest by an unschooled child, then a father’s punishment would be enough. However—”
I glanced again at Curly, then at Phaegin, who, across the way, standing at Sister Ansel’s side, looked terrified.
The captain continued. “We can not allow the commerce of pornography to be so lightly admonished.”
Curly had not, as he had told me, been soliciting Chin’s regard for the past week. Instead he’d busied himself spiriting Mormon boys who were game (and, judging by the jangle in his pocket, there were plenty) to the cart for a nickel’s peek at Dawbs’s handiwork.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
Captain Lowe motioned to Brother Helms, and Curly was led away. “He will be kept watch over until we decide on punishment. The cart will be burned.”
This was a blow. As heavy as the cart was, it was easier to push than to carry our bags and supplies. It meant the loss of the possessions we couldn’t carry, like the water barrel, the tool kit, and Dawbs’s straw-tick pad that I’d grown awfully fond of over hard ground. It meant the loss of some little protection from rain or even attack. It meant we were without any value whatsoever. Still, the fear of losing the wagon was nothing compared to my mounting fear for Curly. I couldn’t help but think of the man Will had told me about. If he’d been killed for a roving eye, what would they do to Curly for tempting others? Phaegin told me the story was erroneous; could I chance it?
“May I have a word with my son?”
Captain Lowe didn’t deign to spare me
a glance. “No.”
After Curly had been led away, Phaegin found me. “What did I tell you?” She pulled at her hair. “Why couldn’t you have watched him?”
“Me? You’re the boy’s mother.”
Phaegin shoved me. “This isn’t funny. Curly’s big trouble means we’re in trouble with him. As far out into the middle of nowhere as we were a week ago, we’re worse off now. If they decide to dump us—”
“Dump us? We won’t give them that chance.”
Phaegin nodded.
“We’re leaving tonight.”
Phaegin sat down. “What? No! Curly’s got to apologize. He’s got to make amends, take what’s coming to him. You’ve got to take the oath, show you’re serious.”
“Take the oath? Are you kidding?”
“I’m not asking you to rip your heart out. Don’t you believe in God?”
“A boatload of misery ago.”
“Damn it, Ned, don’t do this to me. I don’t want to be … out there. I told you, I can’t.”
“We can’t stay. Even if we manage to squeak through this, you know it won’t be long until Curly does something else.”
She was silent for too long. Then she drew her hands over her mouth. “Go. You and Curly, go. We were going to part ways anyhow. This is the time.”
“Go? Without you? What are you going to tell them? We’re married!”
“We weren’t married in the church so we’re not married in their eyes, Ned.”
“Oh, that’s handy. You’re up for grabs!”
“Yes, I am! What else is new?”
I paced before her.
She put out her hand and stopped me. “You’ve done enough, Ned. Four months ago, I was happy, heading for easy street. Now look at me. Are you going to ruin my chances at finding any sort of comfort at all?”
“What comfort?”
“In Salt Lake City, there is no crime. It is clean and pretty, and every man, woman, and baby has plenty to eat. Each brother helps his brother, each sister helps her sister.”
“They’re fanatics, Phaegin!”
“They are fanatics who don’t drink, swear, or carouse. I wish to hell my da had been Mormon.”
“Are you going to be happy being the fifth wife, happy when five more come after?”
“Yes. I’ll have a tenth of a husband, ten entire sisters!”
I groaned. “Ah, Phaegin, no. No. Please.” I paced again. “What about me?”
“What about Lill Martine? I shouldn’t of, but I read that letter.”
I said nothing and she turned away. “You are the almost in my life, Ned. I can’t bear feeling you brush by again and again. It will kill me.”
She dug through her bag and handed me a cigar. “Good luck.”
“I don’t want your money.”
She let the cigar fall back into her bag. “Don’t tell me when you’re leaving. Just go.”
* * *
I waited for the moon to rise. Curly was sitting outside the captain’s wagon, tethered by a thin cord. I whistled. When he looked up, I inclined my head, indicating away. All he had to do was untie the knot. The cart waited for us just over the hill, Chin grazing on a small pile of oats. No attempt to stop us. They’d known exactly what we would do and wanted us to do it.
Yet how could I leave Phaegin? How could I not?
Curly was pleased as all get out with the adventure, the brilliant escape. “Where’s Phaegin meeting us?”
I shushed him.
He kept looking behind and asked again, after another half mile, “Where’s Phaegin? She’s gonna get lost.”
I turned on him. “We’re on our own. She’s staying with them.”
Curly turned back, shouting, “She ain’t, she b’longs with us!” But after a few steps he looked around perplexed. “Which way is it?”
“This way, Curly.”
We walked a couple of miles, then Curly shouted, “I want Phaegin!”
“Shut up, Curly!” I was on the verge of tears. “We’ve done enough to Phaegin, don’t you think? Maybe she can be happy now.” I didn’t see how, though, nor could I see my own way to happiness. Phaegin had disappeared like everyone else I’d loved, and I was feeling her absence like an endless winter.
I released the cart with a shudder in order to take a look at the little compass I’d stolen in Chicago. Chin was leading the way and it seemed she was taking us back toward our stamping grounds around Fort McPherson. She turned and whickered. I shrugged and began pulling the cart again. Why not? There was as much emptiness to disappear into there as anywhere. Besides, if I was ever to find a place of respite, it would hold no solace for me until I’d learned what had happened to Lill Martine.
CHAPTER 31
Like a gigantic horsefly, Curly lit on Chin’s back time and time again, only to be shrugged off, tossed off, kicked off. She gave him a grapefruit-sized bite on his skinny arm, kicked him full in the chest, and swung her heavy tail in his face with such power he had welts across his cheek. Curly picked himself up from the dirt, shouting invective after her for miles, even while wiping tears of disappointment and frustration from his filthy face. Still, he did not give up. Chin’s demeanor slipped from balky to out-and-out difficult, and any hope I’d had that she would eventually be of use in pulling the cart evaporated, leaving me resentful to furious, depending on how difficult the going was. With effort, I had been able to pull the cart over the tracks left by the wagons, but now in the grass and stone-hummocked prairie it was close to impossible.
We had managed without a trail before because Phaegin had stood behind me, pushing the cart from behind, every step of the way. I had not realized how much aid she’d provided. With every step, I knew now. And I could do nothing but think of her. Think of what was missing in this leg of our journey. I missed not only her help but her conversation. I missed looking back and seeing her. I missed being able to confer with her; I missed having a reason to go on. It seemed our journey was nothing now but wandering and worrying. Wandering aimlessly and worrying Chin. I told myself we were not aimless; I had a plan. Though it felt to me now less the golden opportunity I had once envisioned than a plain gray responsibility too long on my brow.
We were less than a day now from Fort McPherson. Obviously we would have to steer well clear of the fort, but it meant we were also close to Osterlund’s place. I would finally ascertain what I had done to Lill and what I needed to do as recompense. It could be dangerous. Osterlund was a strapping brute. If he was sore enough—and of course he would be—he could take me. I, however, had the pistol and four remaining shells.
I would wait until dark, waylay Osterlund in his sleep, hold the gun to his head, and make him tell me where Lill was. I only hoped he had some inkling. Then I’d hightail it out of there, casting our trajectory from whatever information I’d extracted.
Chin neighed, Curly screamed. He was lying on the ground kicking his legs and flailing his arms, a child in full throes of a tantrum. Chin, for her part, stood looking at him with a satisfied long-toothed smile.
“What now?”
Curly stood up and held his arms out wide. “She shit on me, shit on me, shit on me!”
“Help me with the cart, goddamn it!” I snapped.
“I need a bath!”
“You’ve needed a bath since before we left Connecticut. Chin’s shit likely makes you smell better!”
“You sure are bad-tempered since Phaegin left.”
“Since I’ve had to pull this thing on my own.” I put the handles down. “I mean it, Curly, I can’t keep on. Get thee behind me, Satan, and put your back into it.”
Curly made a face and positioned himself against the cart, but it seemed I was dragging him rather than getting any aid whatsoever. I groaned. “Gobawful, ain’t it?” Curly chirruped from behind.
I agreed but said nothing. The country had begun to look familiar. The sun was high. This would be an evening of reckoning.
Late afternoon I left Curly napping under the cart, p
arked in a copse of cottonwoods. “Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, just sleep, please,” I begged him.
He stretched in his shady nook. “Fine by me. What are you doing?”
“Getting the lay of the land. Maybe I’ll find something to eat.”
“You’ll bring some back? You are comin’ back, aren’tcha?”
“Curly. If I didn’t leave you before, why would I now?”
“Woren down. Like my ma. Dint wanta, but she was jus’ woren down.”
I nodded. “I got some ways to go yet, Curly.”
He smiled, curled into a ball, and closed his eyes.
In the year I’d been gone, it seemed a road a month had been built across the previously barren prairie. I traversed one rutted avenue after another and in an hour came to the Osterlund homestead. It had not suffered any. A bramble rose coiled up the porch railing and along the eave. The yard was dirt but clean, and a verdant kitchen garden graced the side yard. Had Osterlund found another woman to manage his needs? I hunkered down behind a bush to wait until nightfall. If Osterlund had another woman, my plan was in jeopardy. Though I felt no qualms at holding Ry hostage, I hadn’t the heart to terrify an innocent woman.
From the house came the shriek of a child. A child as well? Another complication. Perhaps I should just go. If Osterlund had a new wife, a different family, why would he keep track of Lill? I might well know more about her whereabouts than he did.
I took notice of a chicken coop with hens pecking amiably about. Perhaps I would relieve Osterlund of a chicken dinner as soon as it was dusk. I settled down for a wait. Maybe two hens, one to eat, one to save. My stomach growled. Perhaps a quick foray into the garden. I stared into the green rectangle. The corn was finished, but bright orbs of tomatoes glistened on waist-high bushes. Squash leaves, twice as big as Chin’s hooves, would certainly be hiding pumpkins and zucchini.
Another shriek. The screen door banged open and a child tipped out onto the porch then crawled furiously to the step, backed down, and toddled across the swept dirt of the yard.
“Lucy!” A familiar voice. A woman swept through the door herself, laughing. “You escape artist!”
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