Dragon Frontier

by Dan Abnett

  Jake kicked a plume of dust from the ground in frustration and then ran back to jump on the wagon, which Gertie and Bertie were pulling steadily onwards.

  As the long day fell into a slow twilight, the wagons began to gather in a smaller area than their usual camp gathering.

  There had been a hundred wagons when they’d left St Louis in the spring. That number had swelled to three hundred when they reached the staging post at St Joseph, Missouri, in May. At its largest, there were almost twelve hundred people making the trek west and only two doctors.

  Jake’s father, Doc Polson, had tended to hundreds of scraped knees and bumped heads. He’d set four broken arms and fixed dozens of sprained ankles before people got used to hopping on and off the moving wagons. He’d also salved a couple of dozen scalds and burns, he’d sat up with a child with croup for three nights, and he’d even delivered two babies, with the help of Aunt May, the midwife.

  The wagon-train numbers had been stable for eight or ten weeks, and then the caravan had divided at Fort Hall. Two-thirds of the wagons set off on the California Trail, while the Polsons and four hundred other folk took the Oregon Trail. Doc Polson was the only doctor in the group heading for Oregon, but, since the wagon train had divided, he was much less busy. The wagon-trainers had settled into an easy daily pattern and suffered fewer accidents. The summer weather had been kind, and only a few unfortunate incidents had broken the day-to-day routine. They had escaped the terrible threat of cholera entirely.

  Today there was a buzz running up and down the long line of the caravan, and all anyone could talk about was the next river crossing. Back east, rivers had been crossed on bridges of wood or even stone, which looked to Jake as if they had been there forever. The bridges were safe, and, although the wagons had to cross one at a time, the train wasn’t slowed down too badly.

  Some rivers ran very fast or very deep, or had banks that were too steep or beds that were too rocky. It was too dangerous for anyone, except perhaps for some of the hardiest of the Native Americans, to cross them. All of the native tribes lived with the land more closely than the immigrants ever had or ever would. They were experts, but there were some rivers that even they would not dare to cross when they were running as full and fast as they were this fall.

  They were heading for a fording place on the Snake River, on their way to Emmet’s Crossing. It should be safe, but it was also something exciting to look forward to. Most rivers could be forded where the waters were slow enough and shallow enough for a horse or a wagon to cross on foot. Fording places were most often found upriver and where the river was widest.

  The Oregon Trail had been trodden by thousands of feet, hoofs and wheels before them, and Doc Polson and the other elders of the families had no doubts that the wagon train would cross the river safely. The staging post had been set up by pioneers long ago, and the men had built several sturdy scow rafts, which could carry a wagon each and cross the river without anyone or anything even getting wet.

  When the wagon train reached the crossing place, Jake couldn’t wait to get down. Doc Polson, Mr Hogarth and Pa Watkiss, who was the oldest man and the most experienced traveller in the wagon train, approached the men repairing one of the scow rafts. Meanwhile, Jake, Buck and a couple of the other boys walked down to the river to take a good look at it.

  The water was brown and churning, and they couldn’t see the opposite riverbank in the fading light. It looked as if the crossing might be dangerous, after all. A surge of excitement buzzed through Jake’s head as he imagined what Julius Greengrass would do, faced with the torrent of spuming grey-brown water, frothing white in places. He drew closer to his father, to listen to the negotiations.

  ‘A man could build a house for what you’re asking,’ said Pa Watkiss. ‘I should know, I’ve done it twice.’

  ‘That’s the price,’ said the heavy-set scow man, with the brush of thick stubble.

  ‘It’s more than we can afford,’ said Jake’s pa, deep in thought.

  ‘Should’ve considered that before joining the caravan,’ said the man with the stubble, turning to the blond man next to him, who simply nodded. When Stubble-man had his back turned to him, the blond man winked at Jake, gestured with his head and slowly turned to walk away. It was obvious to Jake that the two men weren’t on friendly terms.

  ‘I won’t be held to ransom,’ said Pa Watkiss, pulling his hat firmly down to shade his eyes, without managing to hide the angry line of his mouth.

  ‘Do as you please,’ said Stubble-man. ‘The river’s high and running fit to bust. It’s a dangerous business crossing her, and a man deserves to be paid well for taking the risk.’

  ‘It’s not the wagon,’ said Doc Polson, ‘but why so much to transport the horses?’

  ‘You can ride a horse,’ said Stubble-man, crossing his arms over his barrel chest in defiance, the hair on his wrists almost as thick as the hair on his head.

  Jake could see that he wasn’t going to lower his prices.

  ‘Simple folk ride wagons and use their two good feet to walk the trail. If you can afford to ride a horse, you can afford to pay for it to cross the river,’ he said. ‘Even the strongest horse would struggle to get safely across under its own steam. Paying the fee is smarter than losing the horse.’

  Doc Polson looked down at his shoes. He could never keep such a close eye on all of his patients if he didn’t have his horse.

  ‘Of course,’ said Stubble-man, ‘if you sold me the horse, you could afford to cross with the wagon.’

  Jake didn’t like what he was hearing. He ducked under Mr Hogarth’s arm and came up behind his father.

  ‘Pa,’ he said, but his father wasn’t listening.

  ‘Pa,’ he said again, a little louder.

  ‘In a minute, Jacobs,’ said his pa. ‘I’ve got to work this out for the best, neh?’

  Jake tugged on his pa’s coat-sleeve, trying not to draw too much attention to himself.

  Doc Polson sighed.

  ‘Excuse me for one moment,’ he said. He led Jake back towards the wagons. ‘What is it, Jacobs?’ he asked.

  ‘You might not have to cross here,’ said Jake. ‘There might be another way.’ He turned to look back at the scow men. Stubble-man was still speaking to Mr Hogarth and could not overhear them talking.

  ‘Well, my boy, what is this wonderful idea of yours, neh?’ asked his pa.

  ‘It’s over here,’ Jake said, suddenly spotting what he was looking for.

  Doc Polson followed Jake into the darkness upstream of the scows. He caught up with him just as he reached the blond scow man.

  ‘Can you help us?’ Jake asked.

  ‘They work together, son,’ said his father. ‘Don’t turn working men against each other.’

  ‘Loyalty’s one thing, Doc, but your son’s right,’ said the blond man, offering his hand to shake. ‘The name’s Gene Bell, and I can tell you that Hog Harry’s a greedy old fool. He’ll lose us business if he puts the prices up every time we have a bit of rain. Besides, if people try to cross by their own efforts, someone’s going to die sooner or later. I’ve been in the water, more than once, myself.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ asked Doc Polson.

  ‘It’ll put a few days on your journey, and it’s not without its own risks,’ Gene began.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jake, clearly excited by the prospect of an adventure.

  ‘If you follow the river upstream ten miles or so, you’ll find another fording place. That’s not the risky part, though.’

  ‘Spending all of my money and losing my horse is a risk, neh?’ asked Doc Polson, encouraging Gene to speak up.

  ‘It�
�s Native country,’ said Gene. ‘They’re good men, and they’ll help you to cross the river for a fair price, or for trade or barter.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so risky,’ said Doc Polson. ‘Yours is the risk when your friend Hog Harry finds out you’re turning away business.’

  ‘The Natives aren’t the risky bit,’ said Gene, leaning in, as if he was telling some sort of secret.

  Jake couldn’t help taking a step towards him, so that he could hear better.

  ‘It’s the forest and the creatures they say dwell there,’ said Gene. ‘It’s all rumour … conjecture my wife calls it, not that she’d ever venture into that territory. She likes it safe, like most folk.’

  ‘What forest?’ asked Jake, his eyes widening. ‘What creatures?’

  ‘You’ve never heard tell of the Thunderbird?’ asked Gene.

  ‘It’s a Native legend, neh?’ said Doc Polson.

  ‘The Thunderbird is more than a legend,’ said Gene. ‘They say that it lives in the forest and that the greatest storms follow in its wake. Its wings span yards and yards, and the beat of them sounds like thunder.’

  ‘Is this your big risk?’ Doc Polson asked. Then he turned to Jake and ruffled his hair, saying, ‘Not so risky as losing my horse, neh?’

  ‘They take it seriously,’ said Gene, ‘and you will too, if you’ve half the sense you were born with.’

  The smile on Doc Polson’s face faded.

  ‘How should I take this Thunderbird seriously?’ he asked. ‘How can I keep my family safe?’

  ‘Stay out of the forest,’ said Gene, ‘and woe betide anyone that lights a fire in the sight of a Thunderbird. Fire makes them angry, and when a Thunderbird’s angry the whole world pays.’

  ‘We’ll steer well clear of the forest, hope for good weather and eat our stored provisions so we don’t have to light a fire,’ said Doc Polson. ‘If we want for warmth, we’ll spread an extra blanket, neh?’

  ‘We won’t light any fires?’ asked Jake, a little disappointed that he might not see the Thunderbird if there was no fire to draw it near.

  ‘We won’t go in the forest, and we won’t light any fires,’ said his pa. ‘We don’t want to risk the Thunderbird’s wrath, neh?’

  ‘So,’ said Jake, ‘the Thunderbird’s just another elephant.’

  ‘Neh?’ asked his father.

  ‘Something else I won’t get to see,’ said Jake, stuffing his hands in his pockets, dropping his chin and walking away as disappointed as he had ever been.

  When they set off upriver the following morning, there were eight wagons. The Polsons couldn’t afford to take their horse on the scows, and Doc Polson wouldn’t leave Jeremiah behind. Pa Watkiss said the devil could take him if he was going to pay so richly to cross a river. Hogarth was reluctant to pay for the scow, but he decided he must think first of his family, and get them and their wagon safely across the river. Besides, he had only his wagon to worry about.

  Pa Watkiss had built his wagon. It was just long enough for him to sleep in it, all five feet six inches of him, from the toes of his boots to the crown of his hat, and barely wide enough for him to roll over. It was not more than half a wagon, but Hog Harry still wanted to charge Pa Watkiss the full fee for the crossing.

  Several of the single men also opted to cross the river further upstream. This was a rare opportunity for them to be pioneers, and they longed for an adventure.

  Jake’s pa promised the wagon-trainers that he’d catch up with the rest of the caravan as soon as he could, so they wouldn’t be without a doctor for too long.

  The vast majority of the wagon-trainers prepared their vehicles and animals, and jostled for the best position to get an early ride on the scows. Soon, there was no one left to say farewell to. Doc Polson mounted Jeremiah, and, at the head of his own small wagon train, the doctor led the way, waving his hat in the air to signal his direction.

  Jake was proud of his father and proud of his own position as driver of the lead wagon. He knew that no amount of encouragement would make Gertie and Bertie walk faster than their usual pace, but he urged them on anyway.

  Within a few hours of leaving the fording place, the path began to narrow and wind. There was a gradient, and Jake could feel the front of the wagon tilting upwards as the ground rose in front of him.

  The wagon-trainers had chosen to travel single file, spread in a long, thin line across the countryside. Now the little train travelled single file along the rocky path because it must. Doc Polson followed the river upstream, with the water to his right. The air was fresh and dry. The women and children walked in a group towards the rear of the wagon train, just in front of the boys, riding their horses.

  Jake leaned back to check on his mother and sister, just as Emmie stumbled and dropped her doll. His ma shook the dust out of the rag doll’s skirts, while Emmie watched, her face serious.

  Pa pulled up on his horse beside them.

  ‘How’s that doll, Emmie?’ he asked. ‘All the better for having such a caring keeper, neh?’

  ‘She’s all dirty,’ said Emmie, holding the doll up to show her father.

  Doc Polson slid down off Jeremiah and patted his daughter’s head above her long blonde braids.

  ‘The path’s getting steep, so why don’t you get in the wagon, neh?’ he asked gently.

  Jake watched them catch up, and then his ma lifted Emmie quickly on to the wagon, before hopping up beside her son.

  With everyone safely on-board a wagon, or mounted on a horse or mule, the wagon train proceeded up the winding path that continued to narrow and steepen with every turn.

  As the day wore on, and the trees cast longer shadows, the wagon train slowed down. The terrain was getting rougher, and Doc Polson would not take any risks with his family or with anyone else. He wasn’t even sure he was doing the right thing. Maybe they should have paid the ferryman, after all.

  When they reached the top of the trail, it was late afternoon and the light was fading. The land to the left was steep and heavily wooded, but, to the right, it opened out. The river curved away, and Jake could see for miles.

  They planned to cross the river the next day, and there was plenty of work still to be done. If water got into the wagons, all the dried supplies would be ruined: the flour would be useless for cooking with, the hay mattresses would be impossible to sleep on, and blankets, quilts and clothes would all have to be dried. It was much easier to guard against the water now than it was to solve the problem of water damage later.

  Jake’s father set Pa Watkiss to lighting a fire at the centre of the circle of wagons. They could use it to melt the wax to waterproof the wagons, and, when that was done, they could cook supper on it. Pa Watkiss called on the young riders, and in no time at all he had a pile of wood and kindling to set a fire, and a ditch dug to build it in.

  Jake eyed the fire, remembering what Gene Bell had told him about attracting the Thunderbird. He thought about going over to say something, but quickly changed his mind. It would be just another reason for the older boys to tease him about flying creatures and make-believe.

  In fact, they would be right to tease, because Jake believed that the Thunderbird might be his only chance of a proper pioneering adventure on the boring Oregon Trail. Thinking about the Thunderbird made Jake Polson feel a little bit like his hero Julius Greengrass, and that had to be a good thing.

  Everyone worked hard for the next two hours, stoking the fire, sewing splits and patches on the canvas canopies, and then melting wax for the wagons and painting it on.

  When they were travelling, it made sense to have to hand all the things they would need to use every day, including things f
or eating and washing, and extra clothes against the early-morning chill. Items such as sacks of flour and potatoes were packed in the bottoms of the wagons, where they stayed for most of the journey. For the crossing, it was important to pack things that couldn’t be damaged by water lowest in the wagons, with more perishable items like flour on top.

  Pa Watkiss kept the fire burning while everyone worked, and there was a happy atmosphere in camp. Jake’s ma began singing while she waxed the stitches on a patch of canvas, and soon everyone joined in. Pa Watkiss got up from beside the fire and pulled his fiddle out of the back of his wagon, ready to strike up the next tune.

  As the sky turned a dark blue-grey, the moon began to rise like a milky disc almost at eye level, large and full. Jake had a bag of flour over his shoulder, ready to heave it back into the wagon, when the music suddenly died away. A tall, lean man, with skin the colour of a glorious sunset and hair longer and straighter even than his mother’s, approached the camp. Jake watched while the man kicked dust into the firepit, burying the flames under loose soil that began to smell of scalded earth.

  Jake had heard of the Native Americans, like everyone else. He had even seen some at a distance, but this was the closest he had ever come to one of them. The man wore a band around his head, keeping his hair in place, and another around his arm. He wore trousers down to his shins made of soft leather, like buckskin, and matching shoes that seemed to fit his feet like the best wool socks Jake’s mother knitted.

  The Native worked quietly but determinedly, while everyone watched, frozen, for a minute or two. Then Doc Polson made an odd tutting sound, and the spell was broken. Jake breathed a sigh of relief and dumped the sack of flour in the back of the wagon. Then he hurried to stand beside his father and get closer to the fascinating stranger.