by Al Lacy
Straightening up, Rya shook her head. “I’ll be all right, Mama, when my nerves settle down. I know other things have brought it on, but most of the time, it was when Jason came near me with that indescribable look in his eyes. With him out of my life, the pains will probably go away for good.”
“All abo-o-o-oard!” The call of the conductor sounded from beside the train. “All abo-o-o-oard!”
Laura looked deep into Rya’s eyes. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Yes, Mama. I’ll be fine.”
Rya hugged and kissed her parents, promising once again to write to them along the way, then hurried to board the closest coach. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she waved to them from the window while the train chugged out of the depot.
12
ON SATURDAY, JUNE 7, Rya Garrett awakened at sunrise to the sound of the steel wheels beneath her and seconds later, she heard the conductor call out, “Kansas City! Twenty minutes! Kansas City! Twenty minutes!”
Rya then realized it was the conductor’s entrance into the coach that had awakened her. She had fallen asleep shortly after the train had pulled out of St. Louis just after 2 A.M.
She stretched her cramped legs out as far as the seat in front of her would allow, moving her ankles in circles, trying to establish some circulation in them. Then she arched her back against the seat and twisted her body first to the right and then to the left while swiveling her neck. It had been a long trip from Richmond, and her tired body was now feeling every mile.
It’s been fun, though, she mused to herself. I’ve enjoyed the scenery and the ever-changing landscape.
Soon the train began slowing down. Rya pressed close to the dirt-encrusted window in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Kansas City. There were farms dotting the green, grassy land as far as she could see. Moments later, she caught sight of the stockyards, with pens of shifting cattle stirring up dust. The stockyards seemingly went on for miles as the train continued to lessen speed. Soon it pulled into the railroad terminal and ground to a halt. Since this was the end of the line, all passengers were making ready to leave the train.
Rya stood up, adjusted her dark green travel suit, and smoothed the wrinkles out of it. Reaching overhead, she picked up her hat, and placed it just right on her auburn hair that was pulled back into a loose bun, and fastened it with a hat pin.
Reaching into the overhead rack once again, she gathered her overnight bag, noticing a man threading his way down the aisle amid the passengers who were collecting their belongings. “Go ahead, miss,” he said, pausing to allow her to move first.
She smiled, thanked him, and made her way to the door. When she stepped down from the platform, she squinted as the bright sunshine greeted her. A porter was answering a question for two men who were traveling together as Rya looked at the baggage coach. Four or five men were busy removing baggage from the coach and placing it on the depot platform. Her eyes then went to the line of wagons that stood along the side of the dusty street.
As the two men were walking away, the white-haired porter said, “May I help you, miss?”
Rya smiled. “Yes, please. I need to hire one of those wagons out there to take me to Independence.”
“All right,” he said, raising his hand and signaling the driver of the first wagon in line. “Do you have luggage to be picked up, miss?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking out her ticket and handing it to him. “A trunk and two pieces of baggage.”
“You wait here,” said the porter. “The driver and I will get your luggage.”
As the porter pointed toward the baggage coach and the driver guided his team in that direction, Rya stood in the glaring sunlight, wishing for shade and a cool breeze.
She watched other passengers as they greeted relatives and friends. A lump rose in her throat as she thought of her family and friends way back in Richmond, and a strong wave of homesickness seemed to engulf her. Oh, what have I done? she asked herself.
A still, small voice spoke to her heart. “It’s all right, my child. You are in My hand, and I am in control.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank You, Lord.”
Opening her eyes again, Rya looked toward the wagon and saw the two men loading her luggage into the bed of the wagon.
Moments later, the porter headed back into the depot, and the grizzled driver pulled the wagon up close to Rya. He handed her the ticket. “The porter said you are wanting to go to Independence, missy.”
“Yes.”
He lowered himself to the ground, helped her into the wagon seat, climbed up beside her, and wiped his brow with a red-and-white handkerchief. “Just where in Independence do you want to go?”
“Where the wagon trains gather, sir.”
“All right,” he said, and put the team into motion. “That’ll be right close to the east bank of the Missouri.”
As they made their way south through the city, the driver said, “So you’re takin’ a wagon train West, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Joinin’ up with friends or relatives who have a covered wagon, are ya?”
“No, sir. I’m from Virginia. Going to California alone. I was made aware by the wagon master’s agent that I’ll be assigned to a wagon with someone who has room for me.”
The driver gave her a sidelong glance and grinned. “You one of those mail order brides?”
Rya chuckled. “No, sir. I’m a schoolteacher. I’ll be teaching in the high school in Sacramento.”
“I see. Just figgered since you’re young and pretty that you might be goin’ out West to get hitched to one of them lonely fellas out there.”
Rya smiled thinly, but did not comment.
The driver kept a running conversation going, but Rya paid little attention as she let her eyes take in the sights around her. Missouri was quite different from Virginia.
When they arrived at the west edge of Independence, Rya’s attention was drawn to a long wagon train that was pulling away from the large open area near the river. The leading wagons were already in the stream, heading for the west bank.
“Looks like one’s just pullin’ out,” the driver said. “Lots of wagon trains headin’ west from now through September. It’s that time of year.”
Rya noted that there were two other wagon trains forming, each in a circle. One had seven wagons and the other had four. She wondered which one was hers.
“Do you know your wagon master’s name, missy?” asked the driver as he pulled rein.
“His name is Chet Place.”
Two men were passing by on foot. The driver called to them, “Hey, fellas! Do you know which one of them trains belongs to Chet Place?”
“Yes, sir,” said one, pointing to the one with seven wagons. “It’s that one.”
The driver thanked him, then drove up to the spot and said, “Well, missy, let’s see if we can find the wagon master.”
He slid to the ground, then shuffled around the rear of the wagon and helped Rya down. A man and woman who appeared to be in their late forties were walking by.
“Pardon me, folks,” the driver said. “Are you part of this wagon train?”
“We sure are,” said the man. “How can we help you?”
“Well, Mr. Place is expectin’ this young lady to join his train. She’s from Virginia. I just brought her from the railroad station in Kansas City.”
The couple looked at each other, smiling.
“Does your name happen to be Rya Garrett?” asked the man.
“Why, yes,” said Rya, smiling.
“You’ve been assigned to our wagon for the journey,” said the man. “I’m Burt Keegan, and this is my wife, Dorothy.”
Rya offered her hand to Dorothy first, then to Burt. They told her they were from Lafayette, Indiana, and would be traveling all the way to Sacramento. From there, they would be going by rail to San Francisco.
While Rya, Dorothy, and Burt chatted and walked toward the Keegan wagon, the driver followed a
t the reins. Burt helped him unload Rya’s trunk and baggage, placing it beside the covered wagon. Rya paid the old man and thanked him for the ride. As he drove away, Burt said, “Well, let’s find Chet and let him know you’re here.”
The Keegans led Rya to the lead wagon, where Chet Place and his son, Ken, were patching a rip in the canvas cover. Chet was in his midfifties, and Ken, by Rya’s estimation, had not quite reached thirty.
Chet lifted his hat, ran a sleeve over his sweaty brow, and said, “Miss Garrett, it’s really gonna be great having you on the wagon train to teach the children. All the parents are happy that there’ll be a teacher along to help keep their children from getting bored on the trip and to make the trip profitable for them.”
“I’m honored to have the opportunity, Mr. Place,” said Rya.
“How about if you come back here to my wagon right after lunch, and you and I can work out the details of when you’ll have your class sessions during the journey?”
“I’ll be glad to. How many students will I have?”
“Well, it looks like about fourteen, between the ages of five and sixteen. We’re scheduled to pull out on Tuesday morning right after breakfast, so I hope everybody who’s signed up will be here by then.”
For the next two days, covered wagons pulled in and joined both trains that were forming. The other train was not leaving until Thursday. On Monday morning, Rya wrote a letter to her parents, which Ken Place posted for her when he went into town.
By Monday afternoon, all scheduled wagons had arrived for the Place wagon train. That evening after supper, Chet Place called for a meeting of the parents and children. Several fires were burning in the circle, giving off sufficient light for everyone to see. Chet had Rya stand before parents and children and introduced her as the teacher for the trip. He explained that she was from Virginia, and had just graduated from Virginia Teacher’s College in Richmond and was on her way to Sacramento, where she would be teaching at Sacramento High School.
The wagon master went on to explain that they would have classes four evenings a week along the trail, after supper. Each session would last two hours, and the parents were welcome to attend the classes with their children if they wished.
Rya made it clear that she would teach each lesson so that the material would be on a graded basis in three sections: five- to eight-year-olds; nine- to twelve-year-olds; and teenagers.
When the meeting was over, parents and children passed by to introduce themselves to Rya. As she met each child, Rya concentrated on learning their names and committing to memory something distinctive about each one.
As the line was dwindling, Rya saw the smiling faces of a boy and his parents move up. “Hello,” she said to the boy with a wide smile. “And what is your name?”
“Bobby Jensen,” came the friendly reply. “I’m twelve years old.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” said Rya. “And these are your parents?”
“We are,” said the father. “My name is Dick Jensen, and this is my wife, Donna. We’re from Virginia.” “Oh, really? Where?”
“Roanoke. We’re going to Yuba City, California, which is north of Sacramento. Is your home in Richmond?”
“No. I was born and raised on a farm just outside of Bowling Green.”
“Oh, Bowling Green!” said Donna. “My parents live in Doswell.”
“I know right where it is. Just about fifteen miles southwest of Bowling Green. Well, it sure is nice to meet some fellow Virginians. And, Bobby, I’m happy to have you in my class.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Miss Garrett,” said Bobby.
As the Jensens walked away, Rya saw that there was one little girl left to meet, who was accompanied by her mother. Rya guessed her to be the second of two five-year-olds who would be in the class.
The child appeared to be somewhat bashful. Her head was lowered as she gripped her mother’s hand, and she was scuffling her small bare feet, stirring up little puffs of dust before her. Her faded dress was shabby but clean.
“Hello, sweetheart,” said Rya, bending down in an attempt to meet her eye level. “You’re five years old, right?”
She looked up at Rya through her bright blue eyes and let a smile curve her lips. “Uh-huh. I’ll be six in August.”
Rya took hold of the girl’s free hand and said softly, “My name is Miss Rya. Can you tell me yours?”
The child dropped her eyes to the ground again, shuffling her dusty feet in the dirt.
“Tell Miss Rya your name, dear,” the mother gently admonished her.
The little girl slowly lifted her head and set her eyes on the teacher. In a tiny voice that was almost a whisper, she said, “Emily Grace Custer.” She quickly looked back at the ground.
“That is a beautiful name,” said Rya, “and it matches such a beautiful little girl.”
“Really?” said Emily Grace, looking up into the pretty lady’s eyes.
“Yes, really. And there’s something else.”
“What?”
Rya reached out and took one of Emily Grace’s pigtails in her hand and brought it up close to her own head. “Our hair is the same color, and to me, that’s pretty special.”
A beam glowed on the child’s face. “I think you are special, Miss Rya.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” said Rya, giving her a hug. “So I’ll see you in school?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the little girl, her voice growing stronger.
Rising to her full height, Rya smiled at the mother. “Mrs. Custer, you have a wonderful little girl.”
“I know,” said the mother, smiling and patting her daughter’s head. “My name is Grace, Miss Rya. My husband is busy at our wagon, but I know he will want to meet you in person, too.”
Rya’s brow furrowed slightly. “Does your husband happen to be related to General George Armstrong Custer, who was killed three years ago in the battle of the Little Bighorn?”
“Yes. George was Mike’s cousin. We’re from the same town: New Rumley, Ohio.”
“I see. Does it bother you that we’ll be traveling through Indian country on this trip?”
“Well, Mike and I are a bit nervous about that, but we’re trusting God to get us through safely to California.”
“Me, too,” said Rya.
“Well, Emily Grace,” said the mother, “we’d better get back to the wagon. Your papa may need us to help him. Nice to have met you, Miss Garrett. I’m sure my little gal will enjoy your classes.”
The little redhead nodded. “Bye, Miss Rya.”
Rya leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “I will look forward to having you in my class, sweetie.”
Both mother and daughter sent smiles to the teacher as they walked away toward their wagon.
The next morning, everyone in the wagon train was up at dawn. Breakfast was eaten by firelight, and by sunrise, Chet Place was in the saddle, leading the train of sixteen covered wagons and fifty-four people toward the Missouri River. Ken Place drove the lead wagon, just behind his father.
They crossed the river to follow the Oregon Trail and headed northwest across the corner of Kansas toward the Nebraska border.
As the miles passed slowly, Dorothy Keegan sat between her husband and Rya Garrett on the wagon seat. Rya asked questions about Indiana, while letting her eyes take in the broad sweep of the land around her. The farther they got from Missouri, the more level the country became. She saw only miles and miles of flat land, dotted here and there with cattle, and acres of waist-high wheat and corn. She was entranced with the sight of a land that seemed to go on forever, and the cloudless blue sky that stretched westward into infinity.
There was no class that evening, but on the next three evenings, Rya found herself in a happy state as she gathered the children around her for their lessons.
On the sixth day out, the wagon train crossed into Nebraska and stopped for the night beside a small brook. There had been no classes on the fifth night, but on this night
, the eager children assembled to have their lessons once again. Several lanterns burned close by to give sufficient light. A few parents sat in, but most were mingling with the other people in the wagon train, getting better acquainted.
When Rya finished the lessons, she led the children in a happy song, then dismissed them. Many of the children went to Rya, expressing how they felt toward her. They thanked her for the lessons, some saying they wished she could be their teacher all the time.
Smiling warmly, Rya hugged each one, telling them she loved them.
Soon Rya was down to two students. Next was Emily Grace Custer, who reached up toward her teacher, opening her arms. Rya bent down and hugged her. The little girl kissed her cheek and said, “I love you, Miss Rya.”
Warmth spread through Rya’s heart. “I love you, too, sweetheart. I hope you sleep well tonight.”
Emily Grace smiled. “I will, ma’am. You, too.”
As the little redhead skipped away, Rya’s attention went to the last one in line. A bright smile lit up her face. “Hello, Bobby.”
“Hello, Miss Rya,” said Bobby Jensen. “I … I just want to tell you how very much I appreciate your teaching. Especially your history lessons. You really make history come alive. It has always bored me before but not now.”
“Well, I’m glad I’ve made a difference in your attitude about history. Maybe by the time we get to California, I’ll have a boy who’ll want to go to college and become a history teacher.”
Bobby shrugged his thin shoulders. “Maybe. Good night, Miss Rya.”
The boy ran away and soon disappeared among the wagons.
With her notes and books in hand, Rya headed across the circle of wagons toward the Keegan vehicle. As she neared the central fire, she moved past two young men who were seated on the ground a few feet from the fire, talking. She heard one say, “Well, I’m originally from Virginia, near Bowling Green. I was born and raised on a farm there.”
Rya glanced at the young man who had spoken, but could only see part of his face. What little she could see was not familiar. She hurried to the Keegan wagon and placed her notes and books inside. The Keegans were in conversation with an older couple and only glanced at her.
