by Karen Osborn
The next day he came again, and the one after that. And so, Maggie, my resolve to do as you advised has weakened. Next week he has promised to ride across the mountains and look for Clayton.
Your Sister,
Abigail
February 7, 1873
Dear Maggie,
A month has passed since I last wrote, but it seems to me more than a year. Thomas had planned to ride over the mountains in search of news about Clayton, but we had a snowstorm the second week of January, and the mountains became impassable. I may have to wait for spring before I can learn of Clayton’s fate.
Thomas has been our faithful guardian throughout the cold, carrying a wagon load of wood from Mr. Peerson’s in the worst of the snow. Then one night last week, after there were rumors of an Indian uprising, he and Mr. Peerson brought us in the wagon to Mr. Peerson’s ranch, where we spent three comfortable nights on feather mattresses under thick quilts and comforters.
More than once I asked them to let me do the cooking, cleaning, or mending as payment for their kindness, but they would not hear me and instead spent hours entertaining us with stories of their adventures. Thomas has traveled across the mountains of Colorado and seen one of the last herds of buffalo. Last spring he was led through a canyon filled with unusual rock formations by an Indian guide. Mr. Peerson told of the months he spent living with a tribe in Texas. There was a man bit by a rattlesnake who was cured of it by an Indian doctor, and Mr. Peerson witnessed several of the Indian dances. He was quite impressed with the chief, who he said was more intelligent than most white men. The world is so much larger than Stillwater, Maggie, and at times I cannot get enough of it.
But this evening I am alone, now that the children have fallen asleep. The wind still rages, and I feel it sitting as close to the stove as I dare. This is the first cold winter since we arrived in the southwest, and it seems fate has sent it to keep Clayton and me apart. Sometimes the world is full of ominous possibilities, and I imagine Clayton’s death in a mining accident or a shoot-out or in the cold desert again and again.
Thomas has asked what I will do if we cannot discover what happened to Clayton, how long I will wait to hear of him. I cannot answer. A life with Thomas would be filled with all that is exciting. He wants to travel throughout the territory and into Mexico. His family is a prominent one, Maggie, back east, and he was graduated from the best of schools. He fought as a medic with the north during the war, but I do not care anymore. The desert obliterates old divisions.
As soon as it is possible to travel over the mountains, Thomas has promised me he will find out what has become of Clayton. Sister, you are my sole confidante. Do not relate to Mother or Aunt Celia any of what I write.
Yours,
Abigail
March 2, 1873
Dear Maggie,
This morning Thomas rode out across the mountains to search for Clayton. I do not know what to hope for. In truth, I can only hope that I will learn what has happened to him, for not knowing has become almost unbearable. If Clayton has died, I have agreed to stay with Mr. Peerson under the guise of housekeeper until further plans can be made. The children are fond of Thomas; George Michael knows more of him than he remembers of his father. Under the circumstances, it would not be necessary to wait long to remarry.
Your letters urge faith and discretion, and you are right, I must believe that life’s unfolding has some meaning and that I will soon see clearly the direction I must take. If Clayton lives, Thomas has said he will leave the territory at once. We will endeavor to forget one another. Only Mr. Peerson and you, my dear sister, know of our circumstances, and Mr. Peerson has pledged his secrecy.
Pray for me,
Abigail
April 15, 1873
Dear Maggie,
Last week Clayton was returned to us. Dr. Mayfield located him just outside a mining camp where he was staying with a friend of Mr. Stone’s. He had taken up work at a newer mine for higher pay, sending word that he would be back at the end of two months, but neither that letter nor the messages he would send later reached us. Just a few days before he was to ride home, he was injured.
It is his back, Maggie, and I do not see how he will ever be the same again. He is all bent over and cannot walk or sit or ride for very long. If Dr. Mayfield had not found him, he would not have been able to come back over the mountains for some time. Dr. Mayfield says the back should mend but that Clayton may never regain the strength he once had.
Since his return, Clayton spends much of the day lying in bed, watching the children play through the open doorway. George Michael hardly seems to remember his own father and holds my skirts when Clayton reaches out for him. Dr. Mayfield has gone east. He has said he might return to the territory to open a practice north of here in a larger town. I do not imagine I will see him again.
We have enough food and money to get through this month and the next, but I do not know what we will do come summer. Clayton will not talk of returning to Virginia; in truth, he talks very little. I cannot imagine that he will be able to work for the mines. I do not know what will become of us.
Your Sister,
Abigail
Chapter 3
May 22, 1873
Dearest Maggie,
You asked in your letter about Clayton’s health. His back is mending, slowly, but he stays in bed much of the day and will not talk with me about what we should do come summer. Dr. Mayfield told us that if Clayton continued bed rest, with a set of prescribed exercises, he should be able to stand and perhaps walk again by the end of the summer. He recommended the baths north of here, near the mines. These are hot pools of water, thick with minerals and said to cure nearly everything—rheumatism, all manner of physical debility, and spinal diseases, including paralysis.
Our water rights have been contested, and I am afraid our hard work of digging the ditches was done in vain. We recently got word that we have lost the rights unless we pay more in water taxes than even Mr. Peerson with all his acres pays. I do not see how this could happen, except that we have heard almost everyone on the board speaks Spanish, and I suppose they went against us.
My hope is that Clayton will be well enough by late June to travel and will agree to go north. The Deerings plan to travel north also, as the land is easier to farm, and they would like to start a small ranch.
I understand your meaning in your letter when you write that I should no longer mention what is past. I am sure there are times when Aunt Celia and even Mother request to read my letters. Do what you think best with those I have sent during the last year; dispose of them if need be. I will say no more.
You ask me also to return to Virginia, where you can be of help. Believe me, Maggie, when I say what I long for most is to feel myself in your sturdy arms and hear your calm, sensible voice. But I have lived on this desert for five years now. It is a hard place to make a home, but it is also beautiful. I do not know how else to say this, except that my heart, my very soul, has become one with it. In the spring I am wild with the deep green of the cottonwoods and the cactus’s exotic blossoming. Throughout summer, it is my own self that is dried and parched and windblown. The sky here is like no other, and Maggie, its bright wide bowl is the lining of my soul.
Perhaps you are right. My “desert love,” as you call it, may have grown from fear. As you say, it has taken one of my children and perhaps the health of my husband. Aunt Celia’s letters describe Mother’s anger over the lack of responsibility she believes I have taken for Amy and George Michael. I suppose you are right and she would forgive all were I to return, but can I do so, in defeat? And, Maggie, we have little money. You have written yourself that John’s business is just large enough for him and his brother. I am afraid our lives in Virginia would not be any easier.
Please try to understand the sense of this, dear sister. Do not blame me too much.
Abigail
June 10, 1873
Dear Maggie,
We set off in a few days. Clayton
moves about a little more freely now, and I have spent the last two months repairing the wagon and purchasing two good mules to pull it. Amy has been such a help with George Michael and the packing of our belongings. I am hopeful we will be able to find schooling for her. When I read of Irene and Robert’s progress, I get discouraged that Amy will never advance the way she should with just the simple knowledge I have taught her at home.
The Deerings, one other family, and several single travelers will compose our group, led by Mr. Shumway, who has had experience as a scout. We will follow the Rio Grande into northern New Mexico and with any luck should be settled by summer’s end.
Be assured, I will write as soon as I know where we will settle. And I will hope that you will forgive me. You are right, I suppose, in saying that last winter Clayton would have agreed to move back to Virginia. I cannot imagine anything that he would have chosen to fight me on. I pray that you will find it in yourself to accept this.
Your Sister,
Abigail
September 21, 1873
My Dear Maggie,
We are settled on a small piece of land near the town of North Valverde, along the mountain range. The desert is not all dry sand and rock and clay. There are many places where a river or creek runs through the land, turning it green with vegetation. Cottonwoods, willows, and oak trees are common in such areas. In the spring and early summer, flowers bloom in abundance, and anything which one plants in the wet, sandy soil is likely to thrive.
Maggie, our land is just such a place as I have described. We have purchased land in a valley created by two rivers. The water runs through our land, and we are free to plant on its banks. The property was more dear because of this, but we know well the value of land that is near water. Clayton worries, as we have spent everything to purchase it; I know we have done what is right and will prosper for years to come. When I saw the green of the cottonwood leaves and prairie grass side by side with the different shades of brown and red that mark the desert-like mountains, all of it covered by the blue of the sky, I knew we were home and that my heart had found its place.
We have bought the land from the Spanish-speaking people who settled here more than a hundred years ago. Water rights come with the land purchase, but we will need to dig ditches from the main acequia to irrigate the fields. The area is quite mixed with Spaniards, Indians, white settlers, and some Mexicans, the majority of the landowners being Spanish. I feel I have entered a foreign land. Indeed, one hears all kinds of languages spoken, and there are few who speak clear English. But the Deerings have bought land not too far north of us, and there are several other settlers from the east in this valley.
The evening after we moved into the house, which consists of a dirt floor and clay walls with a wooden roof, I noticed several dark, shadowy figures moving past the windows. I was so frightened I hardly felt my feet touching the soft dirt as I crept across the floor and slipped my finger around the trigger of the shotgun. When I opened the door, I saw them—four Indians, three of them squaws and one an old man. They had opened a bin beside the house. I assumed they were looking for food. After I gave them each a hominy cake left from our supper, they disappeared into the night like smoke.
I am thankful that we have enough flour and corn to see us through most of the winter and that we have our little sheet-iron stove. We had to sell our goat and chickens, but we carried a beehive with us under the wagon. At the springs where we stopped so that Clayton could take advantage of their healing properties, we heard of all kinds of miracles—a lame child who walked without his crutches after just four days, and there was a woman cured of tuberculosis. After two weeks, Clayton was much the same, but by the time we reached the valley, he was improved and able to walk. He claims it was all the stumbling he did through the desert air, but I am not sure that it wasn’t the springs.
Oh, Maggie, please do be happy for me. And send us all good wishes for our new beginning.
Abigail
December 11, 1873
Dear Maggie,
Each day here in our desert home is thick with all that is new and unusual for us to see and hear. I have grown so used to hearing Spanish that many words are familiar to me, but the Indian words sound as if they were blown here from some foreign place. I suppose, in actuality, it is Clayton and myself that have arrived unexpectedly, whisked, it seems, by the wind across the sand and the clay-covered earth.
The houses are made mostly of adobe, which we are told is practical, as they stay cool despite the heat in the summer. Many of the mud huts hang great strings of red peppers on their doors in the fall. There are large flocks of sheep near the mountains, and the rivers descend like threads of silver.
The Indians grow corn, wheat, pumpkins, squash, melons, and even grapes. The women carry their babies on boards against their backs, and they carry water by balancing large earthen pots on their heads. I saw a woman making tortillas, which look like thick, large pancakes. Tomorrow is a great feast day for the Catholics. We are told that between the Spanish people and the Indians, there will be an abundance of whiskey and dancing.
Yesterday, despite the cold, I scrubbed two tubs full of clothes. I have made myself a pair of bloomers out of heavy cotton, which come almost to my ankles. It would make sense to wear shorter skirts here, but I have not been able to convince myself to do so.
Last month there was a rattlesnake in our front yard. It came close to striking George, who was sitting in the dirt with a pile of sticks he had made. Before I knew it, I had thrown a large rock at its head. The thing was stunned long enough for me to grab hold of the ax which was nearby and chop off its head. Later Clayton skinned it, and now we have its shell hanging on the wall just inside our door, a reminder of my bravery.
When we travel up into the mountains, there are no roads, only the peaks, which we have named after the presidents, to guide us. Not far from our house is a mesa, a mountain which is long and flat across the top. When I open my front door, I can see it stretching across a length of sky, cutting its straight, certain line above the horizon.
Here is a letter I got from Sally last summer. I expect you know about Adam and Grey going off to Colorado, but the rest may be news to you.
Your Sister,
Abigail
July 29, 1873
Dear Abigail,
I had another boy, born last month, a big strong baby like William, and I called him Matthew. I am staying here in the hills with Rachel and the boys, with a family called the Harmons, while Roger is gone these two or three months to earn a living out of those mines. I would be so glad if he would give them up like your Clayton. If there is nothing in these ones, he says he will, and then we can live in town in our own house. There is a need for men that can do carpentry, and 1 feel sure we would be all right.
My duties here are the cleaning of the house and cooking for the five Harmons and the four men who work for them. There is plenty of variety of vegetables here, and so I invent all kinds of recipes, like squash and green pepper pie, which we ate last night. There are two girls for Rachel to play with, and if we are still here in a month’s time I will send her off to school with the others. She is learning hard work at a young age—hauling buckets of laundry, scrubbing and cleaning, caring for the baby and Will. I would like to see her get some sort of education before she is grown.
Do you think often of Virginia? I do and long to go back, though there is nothing really to go back to in the way of making a living, as Roger has said to me too many times. It is awful how I miss my mother. Nearly most of my family is there still. But did you hear that Adam and Grey went to Colorado? I guess they will work the mines. Mother says they are bound for adventure and may come the rest of the way across to California. Wouldn’t that be grand?
I do think of you often, Abigail. Perhaps we will see one another again.
Your Sally
February 7, 1874
Dear Maggie,
We had snow last week, the most Amy could remember ever hav
ing seen. The world got whiter and whiter all morning, and by afternoon the tree limbs and our house were heavy with it. Clayton stayed inside by the stove, as his back was hurting again, but Amy and I bundled up against the cold and went out. I felt like a child again, running through all that whiteness. When the sky turned a hard, bright blue, everything was glittering. We fashioned a rabbit out of snow for George Michael, who was watching from the window.
Maggie, I hate to write to you to ask for anything after Clayton lost John’s money and after all you have given us. But I can think of nowhere else to turn. Clayton’s father has given all he can, and we are still quite low on supplies. I do not see how we can get through the winter. Thirty or forty dollars would be enough, as soon we shall be able to plant. Maggie, I am asking for a loan. Know that I will return the money by next fall, and soon we will repay John the money lost to the mines.
I am your thankful, indebted sister,
Abigail
March 1, 1874
Dear Maggie,
I am unsure of when I will be able to post this letter, as we have had a recent snowfall and Clayton tells me it will be a few days at least before we can reach the main roads, but I feel I must write despite this to thank you for the generous loan you sent. It arrived a few days ago and is none too soon, as we have depleted our stores of nearly everything, including flour and sugar. I do not know how we would have survived the next month if not for your generosity. As soon as the roads have melted enough for passage, Clayton will take the wagon to the nearest store and purchase enough to see us through for another month. We will certainly be in need of these extra provisions, as winter has lasted much longer than we planned on.
When the snow is melted, we will begin planting. We are told root crops do quite well here in the spring, including carrots and turnips, and many of the farmers plant spinach and lettuce. I have already marked off a large kitchen garden, enough, I hope, to provide all of us with something freshly grown during the spring months.
