All the stars in the sky: the Santa Fe trail diary of Florrie Mack Ryder

by Megan McDonald

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  and Eliza, maybe they'll plant cottonwoods when they reach California. Then one day we'll be old ladies rocking in our chairs looking at sister trees.

  I told the story of the cottonwood spirit crying at campfire tonight. Mama said, "It must have been the wind rustling the leaves, don't you think?" She may be right, but in my heart I believe it was the tree spirit.

  June 26. Camp No. 17

  No water. No wood.

  June 21

  I'm sad to recount here the oxen are dying of thirst. No water within five miles, and now they can't move except to hunch under the wagons for shade. Frenchie tried applying a cool mud plaster to one, but the poor beast wandered off into deep grass in search of water. Another poor creature fell in the road and the teamster gave him up for dead.

  To think only days ago we were bogged down in mud.

  Mr. St. Clair sketches them with a madness. I wonder how he finds the heart for sketching such misery.

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  Evening, Camp No. 18

  The oxen we are left with can't seem to pull the slightest load. Mr. Ryder began throwing off our belongings to make it easier on them.

  There went our cookstove and several pots and pans, the old rosewood rocker, sacks of flour and barrels of beans. Even the barrel of cornmeal full of Mama's fine dishes. I was scarcely able to rescue Aunt Florence's honey jar and hide it before Mr. Ryder hurled the barrel out onto the trail.

  No sooner had I rescued my honey jar than I turned to see Mr. Ryder heave Papa's trunk over his head and toss it out of the wagon!

  I flung myself at him, too late. I leaped from the wagon in haste, twisting my leg and falling back on my ankle, crying out in pain. Dragging my leg behind me, I crawled to Papa's trunk, where his things were scattered in the dust.

  Mr. Ryder came and lifted me, kicking and screaming, under the shade of a tree. Mama stayed silent on the matter, her face frozen.

  I'd have given anything to hear her scream.

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  June 28

  The river's in sight now.

  Still fuming. Not speaking to anyone but Louisa and Eliza. I had to tell them about Papa's things. They're both furious on my behalf. Truer friends a person could not ask for.

  Louisa asked, "Will this help you feel better, Florrie?" and held up the picture of Papa from the dusty Bible. Also a squished-up version of Papa's hat.

  For once, I was without words.

  Noon- rest

  Jem's busy pretending to whittle, and looking over my shoulder again. "Go hunt an antelope," I told him. He lit up with the thought. "Can't catch an antelope with this," he said, showing me his fishing rod. "Then go catch a whale," I told him. I wanted to be alone with my redhot anger.

  "A whale!" His eyes grew wide. "Are there ... ?" I laughed, a laugh they could've heard in Missouri. Whales in the Arkansas River! I shouldn't tease him so. But I'm feeling dustier than a desert cactus, and about as prickly, too.

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  The guidebook warns of all sorts of pestilence ... I don't know if they mean sickness or bugs, but the worst pestilence so far is Jem!

  Evening, Camp No. 19, Little Arkansas River

  Mr. Ryder brought me two strings of licorice. I don't know how he's come by sweets on the prairie. At first I thought licorice a pitiful peace offering. But then I thought of Eliza and made up my mind not to let another sun set on my anger. Forgiveness is hard work.

  June 29, Camp No. 20, on the banks of the Arkansas

  The mosquitoes are "disagreeable," a word Mama has made popular since we started this journey. I wonder which is louder: the whining of the insects, or my own complaints? Now my poor ankle is not only near-broken, but ringed with swells from their stings. Some are knots the size of a pea!

  I wish I had a silver peso for every sting. Mr. Ryder says I am beginning to think like a trader!

  I've learned to tuck my feet under me now, and

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  wrap Mama's shawl over my head, until I think I'll die smothered from heat. Despite the shawl (and my own humming), I still hear the buzz, buzz, BUZZing. All night the slaps travel through the camp -- feeble attempts to rid our tents of the pests. The vile creatures have even found their way under my chemise!

  Jem has warned me about sleeping with my mouth open. I now clench my teeth and press my lips together before falling to sleep. I hope the Good Lord can still hear my prayer over all the buzzing -- deliver me from this plague of plagues!

  June 30

  Jem is doing some whining of his own. He complains of a ringing in his ear, and has not whittled all day. Mr. Elias, our captain, came and blew tobacco smoke in his ear. It looked like Jem was on fire! I could've a split a cabbage, laughing. Mama did not seem keen on the method, but Jem has stopped his grousing.

  July 1. Camp No. 22, Little Cow Creek

  249 miles out.

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  July 2 Along the banks of the Arkansas

  I took up sewing my quilt this morning. A little worse for wear now that Mr. Biscuit has had his way with it. No sooner had I begun my stitches than Mama quick reminded me it was Sabbath.

  I know she thinks I'm wicked as well as forgetful -- that I've turned a blind eye to my own salvation -- but truth be told, the days blur one into another on the prairie. It's hard to recognize Sabbath without the ringing of church bells.

  So instead of sewing I'll write a poem. Thankfully, taking up my pen is not considered work.

  I am a princess of the prairie. I am a pilgrim, far from home. I am a pioneer!

  We're deep into buffalo country now. Along the trail are many tiny pools, like blue beads strung on a dark brown thread.

  "Buffalo wallows," Mr. Nutting called them. "Made by buffalo bulls fighting," he told me. It seems they put their heads together and walk round and round, slowly, making a hollow that catches rainwater.

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  I find this world a strange place indeed. How can something so lovely come from fighting?

  Mr. St. Clair has captured the necklace of pools perfectly. He asked me, "How are you coming with that pencil, Florrie?" I think he meant did I learn something yet.

  "I learned that the pencil does not make the artist," I told him, to which he seemed to get a good laugh. "Then you've learned all you need to know," he said.

  "Does this mean I'm to return your pencil?" I asked in earnest. To which he laughed even harder, but made no effort to recover his pencil.

  Afternoon

  For miles, oxen dropped and were left to die. Some still had their eyes open. I didn't want to look but could not help myself. It'd be like not looking at wagon ruts in the road or all the stars in the sky, there's so many. Never have I seen so much death.

  Worse yet, we came across an abandoned wagon. When the men looked inside, they found a man and woman dead maybe a day or two. Mr. Elias said right off it was cholera. He knew the signs.

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  The men discovered a note that let us know those two souls were the Reverend Mitchell Hester and his wife. They read the note aloud to our company.

  My dear wife passed on to the Good Lord, the cholera having ravaged her, and I fear I'm not able to hold out much longer. My strength is ebbing. I am ready now and hold nothing against the wagon master for leaving us behind to head for California. Though these earthly eyes may never see the Promised Land on earth, I hope soon to be with my wife in the heavenly kingdom, among the angels.

  The Reverend Mitchell Hester

  Captain Elias ordered us to stay away from the wagon. He called for the men to bury them quick, and a few of the traders stopped to make a proper grave -- as proper as it gets on the prairie. They dug a deep hole to keep the bodies safe from wolves. Then they rolled the dead in blankets, lowered them into the hole, and put stones on top. After they cover them with earth, the cattle are made to tromp over the grave so that no animal (or otherwise) digs it up.

  Sendavel, one of the Mexican traders, made a cross

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  and sai
d, "Que Dios te bendiga." God bless you. And somebody made a sign like a headstone marking their passing. Some of the traders wanted to play cards to parcel out the belongings in the wagon, which made Captain Elias madder than a hornet. He commanded them to burn the wagon at once, on account of the cholera.

  I couldn't help but wonder if the Hesters had any children.

  I was good to Jem for the remainder of the day.

  July 3, Left Arkansas River, Crossed Walnut Creek

  If you can believe it, I have missed all the excitement, not remembering one wink of it as I had to be plucked from the deep like a fish, having been hit on the head with a bottle!

  It was some time before I came to. Mr. Ryder was rubbing my face with awful-smelling whiskey, and Mama, bending over me, appeared to have four eyes. Mama said my first words were, "Where's my hat?"

  It all started earlier today when Jem sighted a huge rock in the distance, jutting up from the unbroken

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  prairie like a blot of ink against the sky. Mr. Ryder said it must be fifteen miles or more away. We were most anxious to make the distance.

  We got to Ash Creek ahead of the other wagons. Mr. Ryder took a look and said, "Looks innocent enough to me." The water in the creek did not seem high. Mama remarked, "The bank looks awfully steep," but Mr. Ryder meant to cross. We no sooner had started down the bank when Mr. Ryder yelled, "Whoa there! Whoa!" and Frenchie and two others ahead of us tried to stop. We had now reached the edge of the cliff, and Mr. Ryder, thinking it quite safe, called, "Go on!" No sooner had the words left his lips than we were whirled through the air and landed with a CRASH!

  The wagon looks somewhat broken to pieces! Jem's arm was caught 'neath a shard of wood and Frenchie rushed to lift him out. When he set Jem back on safe ground, he could see Jem's bone sticking clean out of his arm, and did some terrible twisting, yanking, and doctoring in general to get it back in its rightful place. Jem, they said, bit his bottom Hp to bleeding and let out a string of cuss words, for which he didn't even get himself in trouble.

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  July 4

  On the trail for weeks now. Left behind the lush green prairie for buffalo grass.

  It's only been a day since Jem spied the rock, but I thought we'd never reach it. At last, on noon, we came to the high mound called Pawnee Rock. One of the other traders said it got its name from a battle fought here between some soldiers and the Pawnee Indians.

  Jem and I scrambled up to the top, me reaching it first on account of Jem's bad arm. Buffalo. The prairie's black with them, so many you can hardly see grass.

  Jem and I carved our names in the rock. Jem's looks like this:

  JEM RYDER

  only harder to read since he had to use his left hand.

  Mine looks like this:

  FLORRIE (MACK) RYDER

  Both are a bit shaky. We had to hurry up for fear of Indians.

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  Mama says we made history today. I must admit to a shiver down my spine, seeing my name and Jem's amidst the many hundreds of others who passed this way, hoping for a different life. Could not help but think of that headstone for the Hesters, and how lucky we are to be marking the living instead of the dead.

  Late at night. Camp No. 25

  There were no celebrations here, no fireworks to mark the Fourth. It seemed strange passing without fanfare, till tonight -- after the fires died down to a soft glow of embers.

  Lo and behold, I saw a comet. Its flashing light streaked across the heavens, and when I gasped, Eliza spotted the fireball, too. A brilliant light flaming the Western sky, with a tail curved as a horseshoe. We cried out, and our whole band stood gaping in awe as the sky put on her light show while the dogs howled like wolves.

  Like all the stars were falling to Earth.

  Mama says she's never seen such a sky show! Mr. Ryder thinks this has to rival "The Night the Stars Fell," which he's heard tell of from others who've traveled the same trail.

  Jem says we got our fireworks after all.

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  Later still

  Long after the fires died out, I peeked outside the tent flap and looked across the wagon circle to see one other candle burning besides my own. Mr. St. Clair's. In the tent glow, I imagined him hard at work on a drawing well past midnight.

  I wish I could see what keeps him up tonight.

  July 5

  Stuck here at Pawnee Fork. One month since we left Independence! Mr. Ryder says we may be held up a week or more at this spot. We're waiting on some soldiers to join us, and we'll team up with more wagons headed our way.

  Night

  Such a funny thing has happened, though if Jem tells, I will be in sore trouble. Eliza and I were to fill the water buckets for morning, but we were so taken with our game of landing rocks in the bucket that we forgot until night fell. We thought the easiest way to avoid a scolding was to slip down to the river without

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  notice. We had just started back, pails dripping, when we heard a noise. A scratching and a rustling. How we did cling to each other, visions of Pawnees in mind.

  Then we did lay eyes on our Pawnee. Was Jem!

  And so with a great rustling of underbrush and crashing of pails, we rushed at him through the dark. Then came the banging of water buckets and flying of heels! Followed by Jem's bloodcurdling yells, "Pawnees are coming! Pawnees are coming!" Jem screamed all the way back to camp.

  Eliza and I and our water pails stole silently back to the wagons. What a good laugh we had to ourselves, till our bellies quite hurt.

  July 6

  We have some two hundred loose horses traveling with us, led by a white stallion that belongs to Captain Elias. Just today I heard the herders talking, saying they mean to guard the horses doubly well tonight.

  Later I awoke in the middle of the night to hear the white stallion screaming, Jem heard it, too. Mules running and braying. We were both too afraid to go outside. Then something struck our tent, and the

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  whole thing collapsed on top of. us. Darkness and mayhem all!

  Mr. Ryder yelled at us to get into the wagon.

  By morning, we discovered the whole of our two hundred horses were missing. Disappeared!

  Captain Elias is sure of it being Indians, but Mr. Ryder says, "Who can say? There are horses thieves about these parts in every direction." Still, he advises us to have eyes in the back of our heads.

  July 7 fourth day at Pawnee fork

  I've collected bunches of watercress, which I planted in some soil in a broken dish. Every day I'll give it a little bit of water, and watch it grow. We'll have fresh greens to eat long after we've left the river behind.

  I went to seek out the artist to show him the sketch I've finally finished of Mr. B. Never have I seen a more striking picture than the one Mr. St. Clair has painted today. He's made a buffalo hunt a thing of beauty. All light and shadow, with colors gold as prairie grass that seem to come from the sun itself.

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  I saw the thrust of the Indian's spear in his serious face and the tense muscles of the horse in pursuit and I feel as if I've been there myself, staring into the whites of the buffalo's eye.

  After seeing the painting, I could not bear to show him my feeble sketch of Mr. Biscuit. I attempted to hide the page beneath my apron, but Mr. St. Clair spied it, anyhow.

  He took one look at my sketch and told me I am an artist!

  Later

  After supper I thought to see about my watercress, only to discover it gone! I fear a rabbit has eaten my little garden already -- unless that rabbit be named Mr. Biscuit.

  July

  Today Eliza and I made our acquaintance with a tarantula. The hairiest, scariest arana in the world! Our chore was to gather buffalo chips for building a cook fire. Eliza reminded me to kick them first with

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  my boot. Underneath live spiders and many legged centipedes, not to mention scorpions.

  I was kicking at them and filling my skirt whe
n we heard Jem stomping on the ground behind us, chanting. "Tarantula! Tarantula! Come out! Come out! Tell me what it's all about!" I thought he was just being silly, when sure enough there appeared a giant spider, walking on legs like stilts! Before I could satisfy my curiosity, Jem stomped the poor thing with his boot. I yelled at Jem that the spider wasn't hurting anybody. Yet part of me couldn't help thinking I would not want to meet such a hairy creature in my bed tonight.

  I shiver just thinking of it.

  July 9

  180 miles till we reach Bent's Fort.

  Louisa is good with words. She entertains me with riddles while I sketch in my book. Here are some, to which I have made a picture for the answer, and we shall have ourselves a riddle book:

  Threads of seven colors are stretched on the great prairie. (rainbow)

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  Ten flat stones we each carry with us. What are they?

  (fingernails!) Runs through the valleys clapping its hands.

  (creek)

  Has little shoes of dirt. Whistles night and day. I guessed Jem! But the answer is (grass.)

  I have made up my own riddle for Louisa: What is the color of harvest-moon gold, a treasure to hold? (honey!)

  I told Louisa she must share some of Aunt Florence's honey with me, since she has guessed the riddle. What guilty pleasure!

  Middle of night

  Such a knot is there in my throat and a tightness in my chest, I can hardly bear to write what has happened.

  Jem woke in the night to screams, and shook me awake. They seemed to be coming from the other side of our wagon circle. Mama and Mr. Ryder heard them, too, and we ran outside to find the Nuttings fully

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  awake next door to us. Across the circle of wagons, a most horrific sight caught my eye. Flames glittering against the black night, long after the campfires had been put to bed.

  The artist! It seems he must've fallen asleep and somehow tipped over his lantern and soon his tent went up in flames, taking Mr. St. Clair along with it.

  To think that just hours ago I fell to sleep most peacefully, and dreamed I was sleeping on a feather bed, with roses the color of fire in my hair.

  My heart's broke.