South Pass Brides

by Sterling Scott

  “This is Chimney Rock. This marks the end of the Indian Territory,” Mr. Hatch proclaimed. “We’ll camp early and have a celebration.”

  Herding the livestock around in a circle, the grass and brush were pounded flat to create a dance floor. Men and women brought out their various musical instruments and the impromptu band struck up a lively tune. One man began calling out a barn dance. Olga danced polkas and quadrilles with several unmarried men, but mostly she danced with Thomas. As darkness settled, the couples returned to their wagons.

  Olga climbed into the wagon and lay on the bed next to Beth.

  “You know,” Beth whispered, “you probably want to keep your nocturnal adventures secret from everyone else here, but if you want to be with Mr. Meyer, you needn’t bother trying to sneak behind my back.”

  Olga was stunned into silence by Beth’s frank speech.

  “Do you love him?” Beth continued.

  Olga swallowed and tried to imagine what the honest answer to that question was. “I don’t know for sure. I think so.” Olga was ashamed to admit that she didn’t know what love truly felt like. Beth didn’t respond, and Olga asked, “Did you love your husband?”

  “Of course I did. He was a wonderful man.”

  Olga let the silence between them hang for a while. “I didn’t love Peter,” she confessed. “I barely knew him. My father forced me to marry him.” Olga related her brief courtship and marriage. “Why don’t you have children?” she finished.

  “I was with child once, but it wasn’t meant to be.” Beth was quiet for several moments and Olga thought she heard Beth softly crying. “We had decided to wait until we were settled in Oregon to try again.”

  “You mean,” Olga struggled to find the correct words, “you mean you abstained?”

  Beth chuckled. “Of course not.”

  Olga imagined that Beth had taken her husband in the bum, as she took Thomas. She wanted some validation that the practice was as normal as Thomas had indicated. “How—,” Olga searched for the words. “How did you plan it? Or rather, how did you avoid becoming with child?”

  Beth chuckled again. “You know exactly how I did that. When my husband was finished filling my… hoo-ha with pleasure,” Olga had never heard of a woman’s privates described as a hoo-ha before, but she had no doubt of what Beth was describing, “he had his pleasure in either my bottom or my mouth. I actually preferred it when he used my mouth.”

  “Your mouth?”

  “Yes, I know it sounds rather disconcerting, but the use of the bum does too. After you do it a time or two, it is actually enjoyable to feel a man’s strong… purpose and need for you as he climaxes.”

  “But…” Olga could not imagine how to say what she was thinking.

  “It doesn’t taste bad,” Beth continued her frank discussion without pausing. “Just swallow his product as best you can. However, I imagine that it would be a bit difficult to perform under that bear skin of Mr. Meyer’s.”

  “It’s a buffalo hide,” Olga corrected.

  “Indeed. If you ever want to use the wagon, just let me know.”

  Olga lay silently beside the woman with the image of taking Thomas’s cock into her mouth drifting through her mind.

  “Go on,” Beth nudged her. “You don’t have to wait for me to pretend to be asleep anymore.” She poked her elbow into Olga’s side again. “However, be careful of the others. If you get caught, I’m sure that Mr. Hatch will toss the both of you out.”

  An image of her and Thomas riding his horse together floated before her eyes. She wondered how far the animal would be able to carry them.

  Olga quietly eased down from the wagon and snuggled beside Thomas. He slid over to make room for her, but she wanted to be close to him and so she pressed her body against his. She leaned over him and kissed him. Her breasts hung loose under her chemise and they rested heavily on his chest. The kiss lasted a long, sensuous time. Her tongue touched his, tasting and savoring him. Olga wanted to melt into his body.

  Minutes later, her lips pulled away. Staring into his eyes, her hands slowly roamed over his body. She cupped his swelling manhood and felt it twitch with anticipation. She opened his trousers and gently stroked along his shaft. He silently relaxed and watched her. He massaged her back, running his fingers along her spine. He reached lower and cupped her bottom cheeks.

  Her body—and her heart—ached for him.

  This must be what love feels like.

  She decided that she was in love with Thomas, but she dare not say the words. She could not risk breaking the magical spell. Rolling onto her back, she lifted the hem of her nightdress and opened her legs.

  Leaning over her, Thomas captured her lips. Tenderly, his tongue touched hers. She moaned as his kiss deepened. Clutching his face, her tongue met his almost feverish advance. Still kissing her, his hand cupped her left breast, squeezing and massaging her. His fingers gently pinched her nipple as it hardened.

  Releasing her mouth, his lips kissed her chin and then trailed down her neck. His hand moved to her right breast as his mouth found her taut nipple. He sucked it through the fabric of her chemise. Abandoning her right breast, his warm hand caressed along her body to her leg. Pushing up the hem of her nightdress, his fingers traced the inside of her thigh. She pushed her knees wider as the pressure built within her swelling mons.

  His fingers found her core and opened her pussy. He dipped two fingers inside her, and then spread her moisture along her slit. Capturing her nub, he rocked it back and forth.

  With two fingers inside of her, his thumb continued to press her clit from side to side until her body shuddered with pleasure. She bit into her hand to mute her scream.

  “Now, please,” she moaned as her climactic crest subsided, “take me.”

  Laramie Mountain

  Two days later, a purplish-blue smudge appeared on the horizon.

  “That is Laramie Mountain,” Thomas said in answer to Olga’s inquiry. We will be at Fort John on the Laramie River in a few days.”

  “What, exactly, is there?”

  “It is a trading post, much like the one I used to operate on the Canadian border. I’ve not yet been to this one, but I expect to find a mercantile store, blacksmith, and the like. We will stay there for a couple of days so that everyone can make what repairs they need.”

  And then you will leave me. She shrugged off the foul mood that permeated her soul. “Will there be a cobbler there?” She inched up her skirt and lifted her foot to show Thomas that she was wearing the moccasins that the Pawnee woman had given her. “My shoes fell into ruin and I discarded them.”

  “I expect so, but there will not be much in the way of fashion available.”

  Olga snickered. “All I want is a good pair of sturdy shoes. I won’t care what they look like.”

  “Looks like you could use a new skirt as well.”

  Olga’s skirt had been torn and patched so many times that it had begun to resemble something a child’s doll might wear.

  “Yes, but I’ve no money to buy either,” she lamented.

  “The Lord will provide. But for now, I must be off.” Thomas touched the brim of his hat and nodded as he spurred his horse. Olga watched as he rode toward the purple mountain.

  The ground became hard and dry, and the Oregon Trail narrowed into a single pair of parallel wagon ruts. The wagon train no longer traveled as two rows of wagons. They followed the ruts in a long single file. To save those in the back from perpetually eating the dust, the space between the wagons was increased. This allowed the wind to blow the dust of the lead wagons away. The wranglers permitted the livestock to graze over a broader range as the grass became scarce.

  Olga wondered how much worse the desert would be.

  The mountain on the horizon grew larger as the days passed. Now an immense feature on the landscape, it beckoned the travelers forward ever faster. On July third, Thomas did not ride forward of the wagon train to perform his usual scout duties. Instead, he brought
Mr. Smoot’s horse to Olga.

  “The wagons will camp on this side of the Laramie River tonight, and cross over to Fort John in the morning. I thought you might like to ride ahead and see the place, such as it is.”

  “Indeed, I would!” Olga was excited to have something different to do. Two months of plodding along beside the wagon had bored her to near tears.

  Their horses trotted side-by-side in the parallel wagon wheel ruts. They passed several groups of three and four wagons that Olga had no idea existed. She had failed to grasp how crowded the Oregon Trail was. At noontime, they sat on their horses, resting on the crest of a hill overlooking the settlement.

  “Olga, are you happy?”

  Thomas’s odd question surprised her. “Well…”

  Olga watched wagons cross the Laramie River as she pondered an answer to his question. The valley below them was a sharp contrast to the desolate area they had just traversed. This land was green and fertile, a most beautiful expanse of country. The air was clear and dry, and she examined the distant mountains with surprising clarity. This river was shallower and slower moving than the Platte, however, it was a broad muddy expanse and the wagons struggled to cross it. The alabaster white of the adobe structure of Fort John sat on a bluff above the river. This was the first building that she had seen since leaving Independence, Missouri.

  “I mean…” Thomas paused again, unable to find the words to describe what he meant.

  “I guess I’m happy,” she said at length. “This is a hard venture and we struggle every day, all day long just to eke out a few miles closer to…”

  Where are we going?

  “To Oregon,” she continued, “and only the Lord knows what we will find there. It is such an exhausting time. I’ve not paused to think about such things as happiness.”

  He nodded, but he did not spur his horse to continue their trip.

  “What about you? Are you happy?” She turned to examine his eyes.

  He wet his lips, and grinned. Then wet his lips again.

  “Yes, I am. I was just thinking, as we rode along together, about how happy I am. As I sit here on this horse, talking with you, Olga, looking out on this vast, beautiful, untamed land, I am the happiest—the most content—that I’ve ever been.” He looked away for a moment and then straight into her eyes. “I know this must sound strange as our current life is so hard. But,” he inhaled a deep breath, “I find myself to be so delighted with the way things are working out.”

  “Well, yes, I am happy to be with you too,” she said, but she still had no idea of exactly what he was saying.

  He reached across the narrow gulf between them and squeezed her hand.

  With a grunt, he urged his horse forwarded and turned his attention to the road ahead. Olga’s horse followed without waiting for her command and they descended the hill.

  Thomas led them to a spot a hundred yards upstream of where the wagons were crossing. Dozens of wagons were camped on the south side of the river, waiting to cross. Long, thick ropes were stretched across the river to guide the wagons when they reached the deepest parts. Thomas ignored this and urged their horses to swim. While their horses had little difficulty in swimming through the deep spots, the wagons were having a great deal of difficulty.

  “I’ll have to help the wagons across tomorrow,” Thomas said when they reached the dry bank. “But today we have a holiday.”

  Thomas had not characterized the encampment as a town, and he had been correct. Fort John was an adobe building, smaller but still reminiscent of a European castle. Situated on a high bluff peninsula jutting out into a sharp bend in the river, the stockade with its defensive parapets stood guard over the Laramie River. A disorganized collection of canvas tents dotted the hillside to the north. To the south of the fort were throngs of Indian teepees along the Laramie River. The Indians did not appear to be a threat as they were equally interested in trading with the Oregon Trail travelers.

  “This is a seasonal business,” Thomas said. “Most of the trading is with the emigrants, but most of them pass through in the space of a month. Think of it,” he signed, “a thousand wagons pass this way in such a short time—roughly thirty a day. It’s quite astounding.”

  Olga nodded her understanding as she viewed the chaotic affair.

  They rode past a campground with more than a hundred wagons. The sight reminded her of the field south of Independence. Inside the fort’s walls Thomas led Olga to the blacksmith shop and dismounted from his horse.

  “Here, this man makes shoes,” he said, as he gallantly helped her off her horse.

  “Ah, Mr. Meyer, I’ve been waiting for you.” A cheerful, burly man greeted them. “Come right this way, young lady,” he gestured to Olga. He had her stand barefoot on patches of thick leather while he traced around her feet with a piece of charcoal. When he was done, he said, “Yes, yes, come back in two days. I’ll have them ready for you, Missy.”

  Olga hoped that her ragged moccasins would last two more days.

  “As a practical matter,” she said to Thomas as they led their horses across the open courtyard, “how am I to pay for the shoes?”

  He paused and appeared on the verge of embracing her, but then held back. Olga followed his gaze to where Mr. Hatch was talking with another man. Rees stood to one side, but was watching her.

  “Don’t worry about it. I said that I would take care of you and I will pay for the shoes, and for material to make a new skirt as well,” Thomas said when his attention returned to Olga.

  “Thank you,” Olga said, knowing exactly how she wanted to repay him. She desperately wanted to kiss him, but dared not show her affections in front of Mr. Hatch.

  They tied their horses to a railing and approached the mercantile shop.

  “Mrs. Graus, indeed it is you.”

  Olga turned to see that the man Hatch and Rees had been talking with was none other than Major Jamison.

  “Yes, Major Jamison, it is good to see you.”

  “Mr. Hatch was just this very minute telling me your sad tale. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your husband. Mr. Graus was a fine man.”

  “Thank you,” Olga could think of nothing more to say. She felt guilty standing beside Thomas. She had not thought of Peter in days.

  “I was asking the major if he could accept you and the other Protestants into his train,” Mr. Hatch changed the subject. “That is, if you do not want to continue on to the Great Salt Lake.”

  Olga looked back and forth between the two men. The issue at hand was: did she want to become a Mormon? That answer was: no. But she did want to continue in the direction of California. It seemed that she needed to decide now, yet Thomas had not suggested that she could continue with him. She looked to Thomas and he nodded. Unsure of what he might know, or of exactly what his nod meant, she turned back to Major Jamison.

  “Yes, sir, I am grateful that you can accommodate me,” she said.

  Olga gasped and froze.

  “What’s wrong?” Thomas asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  In a manner of speaking, she had seen a ghost. “That woman,” Olga pointed toward a woman exiting the store, “she is wearing my dress.”

  Thomas followed her stare and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I sewed that dress. I made it and she is wearing it!” Olga found no words to describe how a woman intimately knew every stitch in the clothing she created. The large bow that formed the bustle was unmistakably her handicraft.

  “Can you be mistaken? How could she get it?” Thomas asked.

  Olga’s jaw worked and her face flushed with anger. “It was in my trunk on our wagon. The wagon Peter and I had. She stole it.”

  “She probably didn’t steal it,” Thomas countered. “However, she probably bought it from someone who did.” Thomas watched the woman walk away. “Let’s ask her.”

  “Who is this man?” Olga heard Major Jamison ask Hatch.

  “He is Mr. Meyer, the one who r
escued Mrs. Graus. While he claims to be an educated lawyer, I hired him as a scout,” Hatch explained. “He does know the ways of the Indians.”

  Thomas and Olga followed the woman out of the fort toward a collection of camped wagons. “Excuse me, madam,” he said. “Might I inquire where you purchased that beautiful dress?” The woman stopped. She examined Thomas and Olga.

  Olga suddenly felt ashamed. Standing in her mud stained blouse and ragged skirt she looked like a beggar.

  “I didn’t buy it, sir. I-I—” The woman stopped her speech as Jamison, Hatch, and Rees closed around her.

  “You didn’t buy it? Then please tell us, how did you come by it?” Thomas’s voice morphed into his lawyer persona.

  “I-I—“

  “Yes, please tell us. It is rather important,” Mr. Hatch encouraged.

  “My husband’s brother, he gave it to me.”

  “I see. And what is your brother-in-law’s name?”

  “Uh, Harry Bloomfield.”

  “Mrs. Bloomfield, do you know where Harry bought the dress?” Thomas pressed.

  “He-he found it. It was in a trunk someone discarded along the trail.”

  “Discarded!” Olga erupted. “I did not discard that trunk, it was stolen. That’s my dress!”

  Thomas placed a consoling hand on Olga’s shoulder to quiet her while he continued to address Mrs. Bloomfield. “Madam, could you take us to your brother-in-law so that we can learn the details of how he found the trunk?”

  “He’s over there,” she pointed to a cluster of four wagons.

  “That,” Olga hissed into Thomas’s ear, “is our wagon! See, it’s smaller than the other wagons.” Then Olga gasped and her knees buckled. Thomas reached for her arms to support her. She pointed to a man approaching from the river carrying a bucket of water, he limped slightly. “That is the man, see the scar? He is the one who murdered Peter.”

  Thomas examined the man’s lean physique. The scar along the left side of his chin was clearly visible and matched Olga’s earlier description.

  “You’re sure? You are certain, that is the man?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes, absolutely. He shot Peter in the head and stole our wagon.” She pointed as the man poured the water from the bucket into the barrel strapped to the wagon.