Janet Quin-Harkin

by Fools Gold

  Now she had seen what could happen to a child left in a wagon. Libby chose to walk almost all the time, her little girls close beside her. The girls, however, had become more adventurous and constantly wanted to run off and explore. Best of all they liked to ride ahead with Gabe, coming back with tales of deer or antelope they had spotted in the forest. Almost every day Gabe offered Libby the chance to ride his horse and every day Libby refused.

  “I don’t know why you don’t like Mr. Foster,” Eden said. “He’s the nicest man I ever met.”

  “I like him better than Daddy,” Bliss chimed in. “Why can’t he be our daddy instead?”

  “That’s a foolish thing to say, Bliss,” Libby chided. “Your daddy is working very hard for us and we’re going to help him. Mr. Foster is being very nice to you children, I agree, but if we were back in Boston, he would not be the sort of man we could mix with socially.”

  “But we’re not in Boston, Mama,” Eden said. “You can mix with anyone you like out here.”

  “That’s enough, Eden,” Libby snapped. “I’m beginning to wish that we’d brought Miss Hammersham along to keep you two in order. You’re already turning into little savages and we’ve only been away from home for two months. You’d never have answered back at home.”

  “You’re turning into a savage too, Mama,” Eden said, grinning at Bliss. “Look at your dress and you don’t even wear a corset anymore.”

  “I have to dress to stay comfortable,” Libby said primly, “but I remain a lady at heart. So should you. Now let me hear you recite your times tables again. Begin with seven.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Eden said, causing Libby to look at her sharply.

  “Eden Grenville, I do not wish to hear language like that,” she said. “If you can’t behave properly, I’ll have you sit in the wagon and practice your sewing stitches all day.”

  She looked up to see Gabe’s face. He tried to hide his amusement as she frowned at him.

  “Can we ride with Mr. Foster, Mama?” Bliss asked.

  “No, you cannot. I want you to sit inside the wagon and do your lessons,” Libby said. “If you were home it would be lesson time right now. Your father will be very disappointed if you have forgotten all that you have learned. Go along—help Sissy into the wagon.”

  When the children had run on ahead, Gabe rode up to Libby. “You’re going to have to give them some freedom, you know,” he said. “They’ve got to survive in very tough circumstances. You’re not helping by keeping them as prissy little Boston misses, holding your hand all day.”

  “Mr. Foster,” she said, turning coldly toward him. “I am trying to bring up my children the way that I see fit. It is my belief that we shall only survive if we keep up our standards. By that I mean standards of cleanliness and manners and morality. I want my children ready to step back into the highest level of society when we return and I aim to keep them safe and sound until we do.”

  “You’re going to have to unbend, Libby,” Gabe said quietly. “You can’t spend every moment watching and worrying over them.”

  “So you’re suggesting that I let them get lost or step on snakes or fall off wagons like that poor little child in the shelter?” she demanded. “But then you seem to take a very light view of life and of people. People only exist for your amusement and profit, don’t they? That must be why you have never made any attachments to hold you to one place. Since you have none of your own, I’ll thank you to keep your views on child rearing to yourself, Mr. Foster.”

  Gabe raised his hat. “Good day to you, ma’am,” he said and rode on.

  Later that day they had to cross the Platte River itself. There was a long line of wagons waiting for the Mormon ferry. Sheldon Rival refused to be delayed again, and rode ahead to negotiate. He came riding back with a beet-colored face, brandishing his whip. “Those damn crooks!” he blustered. “Call themselves religious? They’re nothing but cheap crooks. Not only would they not consider taking us out of turn, but they have the gall to demand five dollars per wagon to ferry us across. Five dollars! Can you imagine sixty dollars, just for the wagons?” He slid from his horse and handed it to the nearest man. “Get Jimmy and tell him we’re going to ferry ourselves across right here. I’m not waiting to pay those crooks five dollars a wagon.”

  Jimmy wasn’t too happy about the prospect of the company crossing the Platte by themselves, but Rival refused to change his mind. It was no easy task to have a horseman swim across the swift-flowing stream and secure a couple of strong ropes to trees on either side. When this was done, Jimmy had his men take the wheels off the wagons and seal the cracks in the wagon beds with tar. Then they were pushed into the water to float them across. Men stationed at the front and back of each wagon grasped the ropes to stop it from being swept downstream. Libby held her daughters close to her as she watched the first wagons try this insane crossing. Mules and oxen were thrashing and squealing in the icy, swirling water as their teamsters tried to drive them across. One heavily laden mule got caught in the current and was swiftly carried downstream and out of sight, his eyes rolling in panic as he disappeared.

  “Do we have to cross like that, Mama?” Eden whispered, for once not needing to be told to hang onto Libby’s skirt.

  “There doesn’t seem to be any other way,” Libby said. “I expect it’s safer than it looks.”

  Gabe rode up to the bank. “I’d offer to take the girls across on my horse,” he said. “He’s a very strong swimmer. But I know you’d call my offer interference, so I won’t upset you by making it.”

  Then he urged his horse down into the stream and was soon striking out strongly for the opposite shore. All Libby could do was to ride across in her wagon, trying to conceal her terror as the stream threatened to tear the rope out of the men’s grasp and icy water seeped around her feet, through cracks which had not been properly sealed. When they made it safely to the other side, Gabe was waiting to lift down the children. He then reached out his hand to escort her to shore.

  “Thank you, I need no help, Mr. Foster,” Libby said. As she was about to step ashore the current caught the wagon and swung it around so that there was now a gap too wide for her to step across. She had to go to her knees into the icy water, wading ashore with her skirts lifted in a futile attempt to keep them dry.

  “Nice ankles,” was Gabe’s only comment as he walked away.

  Libby collected her sodden skirts and gave him a stare to match the temperature of the water.

  When the wagons were reassembled and the teams gathered, they started off again, leaving the valley of the Platte behind them. The country grew progressively wilder and dryer. There were no more dark fir trees on the mountains and the vegetation shrank to occasional sagebrush which the animals could not eat. The heat was intense. It reflected off rock surfaces and made the white wagon-tops blinding to look at. The men peeled off their shirts and rode or walked in pants only, their torsos turning from red to dark brown. Libby looked at them longingly. She had already dared to walk without her corset and was now down to one petticoat under her lightest dress, but the thin fabric clung to her back and the tight sleeves were like a torment. She watched the girls skipping happily in their light ginghams and decided that she would make herself a dress like theirs, however strange it looked.

  The end of a day without water came. The men licked dry, cracked lips and looked resentfully at Sheldon’s water wagon as he dipped at his own barrel of pure water. He even splashed some over his face, deliberately, Libby thought, to show that he was boss and owned luxuries they did not.

  As the sun sank behind western peaks they saw a pool of water gleaming ahead of them. The first teams ignored the shouts and whips of their drivers, lurching crazily toward the water. “Stop them! Get them back! Hold their heads!” the drivers yelled to each other, risking thundering hooves, trying to control the animals and grab at their heads. Libby wondered what all the panic was about until the stench hit her, making her press her hand to her mouth, her stomach heavin
g with revulsion. All around the pool were the bloated carcasses of dead animals, their legs straight in the air, their flesh crawling with maggots. Some of the spare oxen, unhampered by a wagon behind them, reached the pool and started drinking before they could be dragged away. By then it was too late. Within a few minutes they were writhing in agony, bleeding from their noses, and dying.

  “What is it?” Libby asked in horror as one of the men fought to restrain the frantic mules.

  “Alkali pools,” the man shouted back. “There’s no good water between here and the Sweetwater, and we won’t reach that for a couple of days.”

  It took half an hour to force the desperate animals on past the lake and by then the poor oxen were so exhausted that two of them flopped to their knees and would not get up.

  “Idiots!” Sheldon Rival yelled. “Now I’m down to three spare teams. How am I going to cross the desert?”

  “You’ll have to leave some of the stuff behind, like I’ve been telling you,” Jimmy yelled back, his face and chest running with sweat that had carved channels through the coating of yellow dust. “We’ll have to ditch some of that flour and some of those shovels and combine the load.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Then we ditch your food and you eat moldy flour and beans with the rest of us.”

  “Do what you must, then,” Rival growled. “Take out some of the shovels and bury them. I’ll pay someone to go back for them when I’m set up in California. Make it look like a grave, then nobody will steal them.”

  “Nobody will steal them,” Jimmy said scathingly. “They’re all trying to lighten their own loads right now. Nobody would be fool enough to take on extra.”

  Libby tried to cook dinner in the bitter stinging wind that whipped up dust and grit. The wind kept threatening to take the fire and sweep it into the surrounding tinder-dry brush, however Libby arranged screens around it. Consequently, she didn’t dare do more than fry some bacon quickly, then fry eggs and bread in the grease.

  “What’s this supposed to be?” Rival demanded. “Am I wrong or is it supposed to be dinner and not breakfast at seven P.M.?”

  “It’s a choice of that or wagons flambé,” Libby said shortly. “You try keeping a fire going safely in this wind.”

  Rival took a mouthful. “It tastes gritty,” he said, but Libby was already walking away, past caring. She lay in the wagon that night, listening to the wind peppering the canvas with a constant barrage of grit, feeling her tongue and lips swollen and coated while she fantasized about water; water in hot baths, water in babbling brooks, gentle waves breaking over her at Cape Cod, iced pitchers of lemonade in summer. She still would not waiver from her promise to share her food and drink ration with her children and so most of her water had gone to them.

  In the morning the wind had still not died down and everyone rubbed red and swollen eyes as they tried to break camp. The animals had to be whipped to make them get up and move off.

  “If we can do fifteen miles today we’ll make the Sweetwater by nightfall,” Jimmy encouraged.

  Libby kept the children in the wagon and wrapped a scarf around her face to keep out the worst of the dust. At times it swirled around them thick as fog, so that the wagon in front looked like a ghost ship, plowing through a phantom ocean. Libby looked longingly at the wagon, safe and secure with its flaps tight, but she could see that the animals were laboring with the load they already had, their nostrils and flanks flecked with foam.

  By midafternoon the dust storm intensified, blotting out the sun and forcing all of the men to tie handkerchiefs over their faces. They staggered by their animals, coughing and retching and cursing. Just when the air was thicker than any midwinter Boston fog, Libby noticed something lying beside the path.

  “Wait,” she called, but the wind snatched away her little voice so that nobody heard or waited. She went over cautiously and saw that a body was lying there, half covered with sand, unburied. She ran up to Sheldon Rival. “There’s a dead man beside the path.”

  “So? What can I do about it?” Rival asked.

  “We should bury him, not leave him there for the wolves.”

  “He’s dead. He won’t know the difference.”

  “It’s only common decency.”

  “I’m not stopping now,” Rival shouted as the wind picked up. “If we don’t make the Sweetwater by nightfall, we’ll all be dead.”

  The wagons plodded on. Libby hesitated, then grabbed a spare piece of canvas from the wagon. At least she could cover him. That was the least one could do.

  “What is it?” Gabe asked, passing her as he led his horse.

  “A body,” she said. “I thought we should at least cover it.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Gabe said.

  Libby went forward hesitantly as Gabe knelt beside the body. She shut her eyes, remembering the maggots on the cattle carcasses. Then she opened them again as Gabe gave an exclamation.

  “He’s still alive,” he called. “Hey, Rival!” he shouted at the disappearing wagons, “this man’s still alive. Hold on a minute, we must get him aboard.”

  “I’m not stopping,” Rival called back, “and I’m not taking him with us. He could have cholera for all we know. Keep those wagons moving,” he yelled to the men.

  Libby looked at Gabe. “I’ll get him some water,” she said. She ran and scooped up a mugful. Gabe raised the man’s head while Libby tried to pour a little through the swollen lips, then washed off the encrusted face with her kerchief. The man coughed, then licked his lips as if he could not believe his senses. His eyes opened suddenly and focussed on Libby and Gabe. They were young, blue eyes and they looked bewildered.

  “Here, don’t try to talk. Drink this,” Gabe said. The man took a couple of quick gulps. “God bless you, sir,” he muttered.

  Libby finished sponging his face and looked at him more closely. She had a sudden remembrance of a cheeky grin and a southern voice drawling, “I’m nineteen, ma’am. Almost . . .”

  “Luke!” she said in horror. “You’re Luke, aren’t you?”

  “You know him?” Gabe asked.

  “I met him on the river steamer. He’s from South Carolina and his name’s Luke something.”

  Hearing his name, the young man turned wearily to look at Libby. “Bonnie?” he asked, puzzled. “I thought you was back in South Carolina. I was going to get gold for you, Bonnie. You shouldn’t be here. It’s no place for a woman . . .”

  “Bonnie?” Gabe asked, giving Libby a quizzical look.

  “I think that was the girl he was going to marry,” she whispered. “He thinks I’m her.”

  “What happened, Luke?” Gabe asked gently.

  “Danged gun went off,” Luke mumbled. “The wind blew it over and it went off. Got me in the side. They went on without me.”

  Libby glanced down and saw that his left side was dark with blood under the encrusting sand. “Your friends just left you here?” Libby demanded.

  “They didn’t have much choice. There was no water left. Anyways, I’m better now,” he muttered. “It don’t hurt no more. Now I got that water in me, I’ll catch up with them soon enough. I’m going to be fine, ain’t I?”

  “Just fine,” Gabe said, patting his hand.

  “That’s good,” Luke said, licking his lips. “I’ll be in California in no time at all.”

  Libby looked at Gabe’s face. He drew her aside. “You go on,” he said. “You don’t want to lose sight of the wagons. I’ll stay with him.”

  “I’ll stay too,” she said resolutely. “You can’t move him alone.”

  Gabe shook his head. “He’s not going anywhere,” he said in a low voice. “He won’t last much longer. He’s lost too much blood.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” Libby said. “Maybe there would be a chance if we caught up with a company who had a doctor with them . . . maybe just some good food and drink?”

  Gabe shook his head solemnly. “I’ve seen enough dying men, Libby. We can’
t move him. You go ahead. I’ll stay with him until the end.”

  “I’ll stay too then,” Libby said.

  “Libby, the shape he’s in right now, my horse can only carry one person,” Gabe insisted. “I’d rather you kept with the wagons. We don’t want to risk three corpses instead of one.” He touched her hand. “There’s really nothing you can do,” he said. “I’ll rig up a shelter around him and give him water and that’s about all anyone can do, I’m afraid.”

  “But what if he doesn’t die for days?” Libby asked.

  “He won’t last the night,” Gabe whispered. “Believe me, Libby. You go on. I’d rather you were safe. Go on, or you’ll miss the wagons in this dust.”

  Libby looked at the dim shapes fading into obscurity, then back at the young man. He was lying peacefully with eyes closed now. She bent over him. “I have to go now, Luke,” she said softly, “but I’ll be back real soon.” Then she gave his forehead a gentle kiss. He didn’t speak but a little smile spread across his lips. Gabe’s eyes met hers. She got to her feet, brushing off the sand and began to walk after the wagons.

  They camped for the night by a mineral spring a couple of miles farther on. The water was too bitter for humans to drink but it had been trampled around the edges and was not surrounded by bloated corpses so Jimmy decided they could risk letting the animals drink a little. The men, however, tried boiling it but spat it out again, choosing to finish the last drops in their canteens.