by Karen Osborn
“It is what I came here for,” Clayton said, so quietly I had to stop thinking to hear him. “The mines are what I came here for.”
I had nothing to say to that and went to call Amy from the yard, where she was splashing cool water on herself at the pump.
Clayton left the next morning to collect his money. He is not back yet. I spent all day with Amy in the field, hitting the ground with the hoe, breaking up the dirt for planting or digging an irrigation ditch. I promised her we will buy more chickens and rabbits with the money that is left over. She wanted to know if we could get a cow for milk and butter, and I told her she would have to help walk it every day to the river, where there is enough grass. I thank God for sparing her, she is such a good girl.
Your Sister,
Abigail
September 12, 1871
Dear Maggie,
I have not had the heart to write to you all of this. Clayton got what money he could out of the mines, but we did not have enough after buying the windmill to purchase the water rights. All during the dry summer, we sat with our windmill and ditches partly dug, watching our crops burn up. I was afraid to put water on the patch near the house for fear that the pump might go dry, and we lost even the grape vines. Feed corn is so high this year we cannot get enough for the chickens, but they and the rabbits are the only food we have.
I went out at sunset tonight and walked to the river. The sky, which is like a huge bowl that fits over everything, was streaked with red and purple. The colors spread across the mountains and got all through me until the whole world was blazing. I cannot understand how land that is this beautiful can be this hard.
Mr. Peerson, who has a big ranch near here, says it took him three years to get water and we should not give up, the land is too good. He gets so much cotton he has to pay Mexicans to help pick it. I nearly asked would he pay us, but that would not have been seemly.
I must confess, I am of different minds about your news. Of course, I am glad for you that John has made such a success of his store, but as I am sure it means you are less likely to join us in New Mexico, I am also saddened.
Yours,
Abigail
January 29, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
Clayton is gone now except one day a week, freighting supplies to the mining camps. He does not talk about speculating anymore. There seems to be surer money in freighting.
You say that I must ask myself why I came, that I must regret the trip since our life here has not met with success. I can only tell you my life seems as it should be. Each morning I peer out our narrow window and see mountains, which cut into the deep-blue sky. They have sharp, clean lines, and in the winter they are partly white with snow. I cannot imagine my life elsewhere.
Mr. Peerson is an interesting man. He came here eight years ago from Texas to establish a ranch. His wife died that first winter, but he has stayed on alone, learning the complicated methods of irrigation and raising cattle and sheep. He has sometimes gone for months without conversing with another Anglo, as we are called here, but that does not seem to bother him.
Several years ago he was hired by the government as an Indian interpreter, and he speaks many of their languages. There is a story that his wife was dark, that he met her while living with a tribe to learn its language, but I do not believe it. A few weeks ago Mr. Peerson’s nephew, who is a doctor, came to stay with him. I am much relieved to have a doctor staying so close by. Last week, when Dr. Mayfield heard that Amy had cut her foot on a rough board, he came over and offered to look at the wound and put a fresh dressing on it. He did all this and gave me some syrup for George Michael, who has a belly ache now and again, and he would not take any of the chickens I offered him to carry back to Mr. Peerson. We have good neighbors here, so do not despair for me.
Your Sister,
Abigail
April 29, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
The desert is in bloom. It is still strange for me to see the hard, thorny cacti covered with delicate blossoms. The prickly pears in our yard have deep-pink blossoms the size of roses. I look into their thick, spiraling petals and cannot find myself. On long afternoons when Clayton is gone, I get out my sketching paper and try to draw them. The cottonwoods near the river will flower soon. In early summer they are covered with downy white flakes and delicate leaves.
Dr. Mayfield has decided to stay on through the summer. He tells me he has fallen in love with the desert. Clayton took him riding last weekend up into the mountains, where they saw several antelopes. The evening they returned, I left Amy and George Michael with a reliable Mexican woman, and Clayton and I rode out to Mr. Peerson’s ranch for dinner.
After Mr. Peerson’s wife died, he hired a Mexican woman, who does all his cooking. The food was very spicy, as she mixes hot red peppers in everything. There were dishes of corn, rice, and beans, and she cooked pieces of chicken and served them with a spicy sauce. Clayton and I drank several glasses of water with this meal, but Clayton said he would like to have more of the hot peppers. Mr. Peerson promised to send over some seeds. There was fine china on the table, and the floors are all wooden and covered with Mexican rugs.
After dinner, Clayton and the men played cards. Another couple was visiting from one of the mining towns, touring the area. The lady wanted me to play cribbage with her and smoke. She was dressed in bright red and blue taffeta, a fancy dress with a bustle. She had a loud voice and seemed to find everything quite funny, such a disappointment, as she is the sole female I have met since leaving the camps.
Clayton says we will have money enough to purchase water rights by next month. He has filed a petition with the water commissioner, and we are waiting for their reply. Meanwhile, Amy and I are digging more ditches. She has taught George Michael how to feed the chickens, and he spends much of his day trying to chase after them. We will plant a small crop and hope to keep it watered this year!
Your Loving Sister,
Abigail
August 4, 1872
Dear Maggie,
At the last minute the water commissioner raised the price we were to pay for water rights, and we were unable to purchase them. But we did manage to use a few of the ditches, pumping rain water we collected and what we could carry. There was more rain than usual in July, and so we have a harvest of sorts.
Each evening I put the children to bed just before sunset and join Clayton in the field. We pull corn cobs from their stalks or yank bean plants from the ground until dark. The sun sets in the mountains to the west of us, streaking the sky with every shade of red and pink, turning the mountains a deep purple. The only sounds are the rustling of the corn or beans and the low hum of insects. Sometimes it seems the world has stopped. Then Clayton calls to me and says we should go to bed so that we can start again at sunrise.
The beans and corn and potatoes will last us much of the winter. There are also tomatoes, grapes, cucumbers, and squash. Amy goes out to the garden near the house just after she wakes, sits on the dirt, and eats whatever she can reach.
Dr. Mayfield returned recently from a town in northern New Mexico, where he is thinking about setting up his practice. He said it is a growing town with plenty of people, but he is in love with this valley, the river and the mountains. Yesterday evening he came by with a string of fish he had caught, which were most delicious. Clayton says this is the place for him even if the mines did fail. He and Dr. Mayfield have planned a hunting trip next weekend if the rest of our crops are in. There are all kinds of antelopes, fox, deer, wild sheep, and rabbits in the mountains. You must come for a long visit, and soon, now that our ranch is beginning to prosper!
Your Sister,
Abigail
September 19, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
Last week Clayton left with a wagon load of goods for the mines some miles north of here. He has been offered employment there and will most likely stay on an additional month to earn the wage they are paying out, which is good. Mr. John Deerin
g, who has taken a piece of land about ten miles from here, rode out with Clayton to get work. Clayton has assured me he will send word once he arrives. If the work is good and he intends to stay the winter, I will join him with the children next month.
Mr. Deering’s wife is anxious to go and see the camps, for she imagines they will be more exciting than living on a farm in the desert. I have tried to describe the type of excitement that fills the camps, but she persists in her curiosity about them. If her husband would let her, I believe she would leave their house and move into a tent tomorrow. She is friendly, if a little naive. She does not believe a lady should learn to use a gun and counts on her eleven-year-old son to protect her. Ten miles is a long way to go with two small children. Still, I enjoy our talk of dress patterns and chicken raising and schooling. I have already made the journey several times.
Days pass when I see no one but the Mexican women who live near by. They are heavy-set, all of them that I have met, and dark-skinned, with black hair and eyes. They speak very little English. Mrs. Deering complains she hired a Mexican woman as a housekeeper and found her unreliable. She says she has heard they are worse than the Negroes. When the Mexican field workers get tired of their work, they just get on their horses and ride off, even if it is early in the afternoon. At the end of the week, they still expect a full week’s pay, and it is hard arguing with them when they spit out streams of Spanish.
Our only other visitor is Dr. Mayfield, who has been kind enough to ride over every few days to check on us. Yesterday he helped Amy catch a horned toad to keep as a pet. She has become fond of goat’s milk mixed with her porridge in the mornings and recently took over the milking of Sybil, the goat, a gentle animal who would never bite but sometimes attempts to wander away before Amy has finished. Last night I made a sweet potato pie, and we ate it with a cup of the milk.
I heard from Sally recently; both she and Bea send letters at least twice a year. Sally has two boys now along with Rachel and reports they are all healthy. Her husband has gone north for a few months to earn money logging, while she and her little ones live with the Sterns until his return.
I have nearly given up writing to Mother, as my letters are never answered. Tell her that both of the children are well and that our crops have met with some success. I will send you a few of the seeds from the peppers we dried!
Your Loving Sister,
Abigail
November 4, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
George Michael has been sick three days now. His throat is all red and he has a bright rash all along his arms and back. Dr. Mayfield fears it is scarlet fever. He stayed with us part of the afternoon yesterday, giving every kind of medicine, and would take nothing for it.
I still have no word from Clayton, and it has been two months. I told Dr. Mayfield my fear that Clayton is hurt somewhere, and he said John Deering got back a few days ago and he would ride over to ask what the news is. I cannot see why Clayton would be gone this long with no word sent back, but there is every kind of danger on the open road through the desert, and the mining towns are so full of killings that many go unnoticed.
Your Sister,
Abigail
November 7, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
At just an hour past dawn, little George passed the crisis, and I know now, Sister, that he will live. Yesterday evening I was sure we would lose him. His temperature had risen, and he was so weak he could not drink anything. Dr. Mayfield stayed the night, and I am certain George Michael would not be alive this morning if Dr. Mayfield had not been here. He had a bottle of syrup and gave it to George Michael liberally, also quinine. All night I rubbed his arms and legs with alcohol and applied mustard packs, until the fever was drawn out.
Shortly after the fever broke, I walked outside to wash the used linens at the pump and fell down on my knees to thank God. When I stood again, my hands and knees were coated with red dust, as we have not had rain for several weeks. But I did not care. I wiped my face with this earth, grateful that it had not taken another child from me, unsure whether or not my husband is buried somewhere in it.
When I turned towards the house, I saw that Dr. Mayfield stood beside the door, watching me. He took my hands and placed them against his shirt so that he too was covered with dust. I pressed myself against him and we two stood like that, touching, as the air turned from darkness to a pale, palpable gray.
I should not have kissed him, should not have let myself stay there with him all that time it took the sun to stain the horizon. I did not mean to, Maggie. You must not tell a word of this. It was my exhaustion. I could not stand to lose another of my babies and Clayton all at once.
I do not remember who was the first to pull away. By then, the mountains were visible against the pale, wide sky, and the earth that lay all around us had turned yellow and brown.
Your Sister,
Abigail
December 4, 1872
Dear Maggie,
It has been three months, and still no word of Clayton. Dr. Mayfield has ridden to all the nearby ranches and inquired about him, but no one knows what has happened. John Deering has said that Clayton went on to another mine where they were digging. Much of the area is said to be rich in coal. I wait and pray for news.
I do not understand myself anymore. I have continued to encourage Dr. Mayfield’s visits. I cannot seem to turn him away. Do you think it possible there is another being in me, another self who acts so impulsively without my approval?
Yesterday I left the children with Mr. Peerson’s housekeeper and rode out towards the mountains with Thomas, on the pretext of finding a miner who is reported to live there and asking if he has heard of Clayton’s whereabouts. The wind bit into our faces, and I felt the large muscles of the horse straining under me as we rode across the desert. Clayton would have insisted we take the wagon, but on horseback I felt I had been let loose somehow in all that wind from every earthly concern. I thought of the girl I was who rode sometimes all morning across the fields through all that swirl of green and blue, and how I wanted to become a musician or an artist or travel to Europe to study. Was it the war that turned us around so, filled us with practical concerns?
Maggie, Dr. Mayfield came west not to earn out a living but because he had to see it for himself: the plains, the mountains, the desert, buffaloes and Indians, the fields of flowers, the red and purple cliffs. He is filling note pads with writing and sketches. I have seen them, the charcoal drawings and those he colored with pastels. How drab and ordinary Clayton’s and my plans for earning a living out of the desert seem next to his. How like the young girl in me still (and oh, I thought she was gone after Father and David’s deaths and half the boys we knew in Gaten County) to not refuse a ride to the mountains or the loan of a book of prints.
We did not find the miner’s house, but returned all the same before dusk, having built a small fire on which to heat our lunch and lain in each other’s arms. Thomas has told me that if Clayton does not return by next month, he will ride north and try to find him or get word of what has happened. Mrs. Deering tells of a woman left alone in the desert one year waiting for word which never came from her husband. Finally, she gave up her claim and took her children farther west to live with her sister in California.
I can imagine her there, how she stayed on week after week despite fear of attack by some bushwhacker or outlaw, afraid to leave, to break off all chance that she would hear of her husband. I wonder how she managed the cold and food for her children and keeping the stock alive. I wonder how she managed.
I am yours,
Abigail
January 2, 1873
Dear Maggie,
The Christmas holiday passed with no news of Clayton’s whereabouts. It is almost four months now since he rode away to work in the mines. He had planned to be gone one month at most before sending for us, but I have heard nothing. The aggravation of not knowing is nearly too much to bear. If he has been trapped in some mine shaft deep ins
ide the earth or shot at night along some roadside, I wonder if I will hear of it. There are stories of bones found in the desert, picked clean, with no way of knowing what outlaw or poor lone traveler they belonged to.
Mr. and Mrs. Deering called on me and the children Christmas afternoon, insisting we ride back to their homestead for dinner. Mr. Peerson and Dr. Mayfield were there also, along with Mr. Peerson’s brother and his wife and son. I had received your letter the previous week, and acting on your good advice I had told Dr. Mayfield I could not see him again until I know for certain what has become of Clayton. An argument had ensued, in which he called me “cruel” and “unnatural,” but I held to my resolution.
You can imagine my position, then, forced to sit at Christmas dinner with him among the other company, but the meal passed pleasantly; he is a gentleman. After a dinner of venison and squash, breads and pudding, there was a small exchange of gifts. I had brought little with me, a piece of embroidery for Mrs. Deering. The children all received candy sticks, and I accepted the drawing pad from Dr. Mayfield, as it would have been awkward to refuse it.
The day after Christmas the wind was so fierce I dared not go outside. By noon it was nearly dark, and sand rattled the glass, piling up against the windows. To calm my fears, I took out my new pad and made sketches of the children and the mountains. I even drew a scene from the mining camps and a picture of our wagon headed westward across the prairie.
The next day, after the wind had stopped and the sky turned blue and still again, I took the drawings I had made out into the light and saw what a mass of confusion some of them were, filled with thick dark lines. Dr. Mayfield came that afternoon to see if the wind had destroyed us, and when he caught sight of a drawing I had made of the mountain, asked if he could have it. I did not think to refuse him after all he has done for us.
