Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  “Meg, you’re going to deliver this baby just fine.” He sounded more confident than he had a right to be.

  “Just promise me, please?” she asked. “I love it up there. It’s so beautiful, and it would make me happy to be close to my precious Biscuit. Under the piñon tree . . . Promise?”

  There was no point in arguing with her about a burial place. He looked at her solemnly. “I promise.”

  Meg sat back and sighed. In the middle of that cool September night, she went into labor.

  It turned out that Meg’s fears about dying in childbirth were unfounded. By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late for either Jeb or Gus to ride to town to fetch Georgia—not that she would have let either of them leave her in any case. Jeb watched her labor progress quickly, forced to turn the pages of the book on childbirth he’d borrowed from Dr. Miller much faster than he would have liked. Then, for a moment, Meg seemed to take on an essence for which Jeb had no words, but felt with inner clarity what others describe as a miracle. Once the baby’s head appeared, Jeb helped his shoulder to slip out, and he found himself holding his newborn son. James Gustav entered the world in the late morning with little fuss, but with much relief to all adults present.

  Meg said she liked Jeb’s idea for a name. James was a variant of Jameson, Meg’s maiden name, and Gustav just seemed right. Mother and child were tired, but fine.

  Georgia arrived a few hours later for her daily visit. She walked in to find Meg with her newborn baby latched to her breast. Jeb and Gus stood by like proud sentries.

  “My, but don’t you two look mighty pleased with yourselves,” Georgia tsked at them. “Like you’re the ones who had a baby.” Jeb was too elated to be hurt by Georgia’s comments and attributed her harshness to disappointment that she missed the excitement.

  “They deserve some credit, Georgia. I couldn’t have managed without them.” Meg smiled gratefully. Jeb felt overwhelmed with strange new pride. “I’m glad you’re here now, though, Georgia. I need you,” Meg said, causing Georgia to shoo the men away. From the porch, Jeb heard the rustle of Georgia changing the linens while Meg asked her if James looked all right, if she was holding him right and feeding him right.

  Georgia chuckled. “Honeybee, you’re a natural. Look at him . . . I’d swear you both had done this before. You’re doing just fine.”

  “You want to hold—”

  “Just for a second,” Georgia said before Meg finished asking the question. Jeb heard the pile of linens drop to the floor. “My, he’s a handsome critter. Just look at him . . . My goodness, you and Jeb do fine work, yessir.”

  Blackie, Angus, and Mick arrived a few hours later. Angus brought a bottle of good whiskey to share and Mick brought the cap, booties, and sweater Georgia had ready to give to Meg. Blackie shyly presented Meg with a cleverly crafted toy for her baby—a gourd with dried seeds inside and covered with soft leather. Once they all caught a peek at the new baby, Georgia again shooed them away from the sleepy new mother and child.

  Out on the porch, bets were settled. Blackie predicted a boy, as had Georgia, but he also won the bet that the baby would be born in early morning. He seemed particularly pleased with himself as he collected coins from everyone. All the men toasted each other with Angus’s whiskey, prompting Georgia to ask out loud why men acted so victorious when it was women who deserved the credit.

  “Aw, hell, Georgia, let us strut a bit. It’s the closest we get to being part of a miracle.” Mick sweetly pulled her into his arms and kissed her in front of the other men.

  “Oh, you old coot,” she chided him, blushing with pleasure. She gently and playfully slapped him on his arm. The men laughed, knowing Mick was right. Hearing the word “miracle” made them peer in through the open window to get another look at the newest one, but found both baby and mother had drifted off to sleep. Georgia whispered that they should all go home. She told Jeb she’d be back later with dinner.

  After everyone left, Jeb brought the finished cradle to their bedroom. He placed it next to their bed and gently lifted sleeping James from Meg’s arms. Instead of putting him directly in the cradle, he held him for a while, studying his face and watching him breathe. It was a marvel to behold—a newborn baby. Jeb wondered how he could feel so attached to something only hours old.

  “You don’t look like a man who’d rather be on an expedition.” Meg had awakened and smiled sleepily at him. Then she noticed the cradle. “Oh, Jeb, it’s beautiful.” She reached down and rocked it. Perfectly balanced, it rocked smoothly back and forth.

  Gus stood in the doorway. “Meggie, darlin’, this is a happy day. Well done. Congratulations to you both.” He came in, leaned over, and kissed Meg on the forehead.

  “Having a baby is as easy as riding a horse,” she joked drowsily.

  “I suspect you’ll be just as sore from it.” Gus stroked her forehead. “You take it easy. Georgia’s coming back with dinner. She’ll be handy to have around for a while. You let her take care of you.”

  Meg nodded and fell asleep again. Gus motioned to Jeb to follow him into the kitchen, out of earshot from Meg.

  “I don’t want to put a mark on the day, Jeb, but I think you ought to see this.” Gus pulled a page of a newspaper out of his pocket. “Mick brought this with him.” He handed the newsprint to Jeb. Dated July 8, 1869, the headline read:

  TWO WHITE MEN KILLED BY CROW INDIANS ON THE YELLOWSTONE

  CHAPTER FORTY: MEG

  Dawson ranch, 1870–1871

  Meg had not expected her world to become so small and focused with the arrival of a baby. She didn’t object. James captured her heart in a way she couldn’t have imagined. Even ranching held new meaning—the purpose of work no longer done for personal gratification, but to secure a good life for her child. Her new role brought surprising joy and satisfaction.

  Her preoccupation with James and the ranch isolated her from the outside world, however, which was filled with turmoil. Reports from Running Elk, who visited the ranch regularly, often brought news that seemed farther away than it actually was.

  The Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868, which gave back land to the Indians that had always belonged to them anyway, was no better than any other treaty. It still did not keep white people away. Prospectors trespassed into the Black Hills searching for gold. Cattlemen drove herds through land on which the buffalo were being slaughtered by the tens of thousands. Indians of all nations, living in every part of the country, were either killed or sent to reservations, where many died from malnutrition or disease. Red Cloud’s supposed victory had not brought lasting peace, nor improved life.

  Running Elk’s older brother could not adapt to living in the mountains like the rest of Gray Wolf’s clan. He took the name Warrior Who Travels Far, because he frequently left the tribe to fight with Crazy Horse, who fought in scattered raids and skirmishes, trying in vain to keep the white man out of Indian land. Sometimes Warrior Who Travels Far was gone for weeks at a time. When he returned, his stories of what was happening in the Dakotas and Wyoming unsettled Meg. His anger was hard to appease and impossible to ignore. Nor was he alone. Increasing numbers of infuriated warriors joined together.

  Dissimilar worlds converged and collided as the winds of change blew. Similar views could not be found even among members of the same race. White men like John Wesley Powell wanted to study and preserve Indian culture, while others, like General George Armstrong Custer, led campaigns to eliminate the Indian along with the buffalo. Conflict lived within the Indian community, too. Men like Gray Wolf, Sharp Eye, and Running Elk were willing to accept their white neighbors, while Warrior Who Travels Far and Crazy Horse vowed to fight to the death before conceding more land or surrendering their ways.

  Not completely oblivious to the gathering political storm clouds, Meg kept an eye on the horizon for Win. They had not heard from him for some time.

  Finally, Mick rode up to the ranch to deliver what they had been anxiously waiting for: a letter from Win. All work
stopped as Jeb, Meg, and Gus gathered on the porch to hear the news. Mick invited himself to stay, saying he promised to report back to Georgia, Angus, and Blackie. Jeb unfolded the pages and looked at the date.

  “This is seven months old, dated October 7. James was born.” Jeb and Gus exchanged glances.

  Meg noticed the lines on their faces relax. “What’s going on? Why is that important?”

  “We saw a newspaper article that said there was some trouble in Yellowstone.” Gus reached over to James, sitting in Meg’s lap, and squeezed his little toe. James smiled.

  “What kind of trouble?” Meg asked.

  Gus waved his hand to dismiss the matter. Eager to hear Win’s letter, Meg didn’t press.

  Jeb began reading.

  Dear Jeb, Gus, and lovely Meg,

  Today is October 7, 1869.

  I am writing this in a town that once claimed to have 67 residents, according to a badly painted sign, but now holds fewer than Paradise, if that is possible. I believe the folks who populated Lucky Strike lived in canvas homes, which they simply rolled up and took with them when they realized the town’s name applied to only the initial prospector. There is one wooden structure remaining, and Bouchard, Birdy, and I are in it. It is a dismal day of steady rain, but Birdy has made a fire to dry us out. Bouchard is sound asleep and I am making use of a table and chair to write some words to you while Birdy skins a rabbit for dinner.

  Do not think the bleak description above reflects my general mood. I have had an extraordinary few months. The three of us entered the Yellowstone River Valley and soon met Birdy’s people. They do not have the same peaceful nature as Gray Wolf, and, at first, I was not welcome. My mistake was speaking Arapaho, thinking they would appreciate my efforts to communicate in any native tongue. I quickly learned that being white was not as serious a crime as speaking the language of their enemy. The Crow were pushed into the Yellowstone by the Lakota, who are allies of the Arapaho. Apparently, it didn’t matter that white settlers are to blame for the displacement of the Lakota, who, in turn, displaced the Crow. Decades of stealing each other’s horses preclude banding together against the White Invaders, as Bouchard calls us. Regardless, in the end, Birdy came to my rescue. Women hold higher status among the Crow than they do in other tribes. That she married a white man did not send her away from her people in shame, but rather forced them to accept Bouchard, and, by extension, me.

  Once we gained their acceptance, we explored such places as I’ve never seen elsewhere. Bubbling mud pots, water spouts shooting into the air from underground, and hot springs are unusual and spectacular phenomena, but what I have seen before of trees, rock formations, waterfalls, and wildlife are put together in such a way that inspires awe and leaves me without words to do justice to its beauty. I cannot imagine how anyone who sees such splendor can remain unmoved by the experience.

  We came upon a trio of explorers mapping the area. Two are boyhood friends, and the other is a Dane they met in Diamond City. You would think the Dane—Peterson by name—would be the odd man out, but he had the right combination of good sense and good humor to be excellent company for them both.

  While they were fine fellows, it worries me greatly that this magnificent country will be so advertised that soon it will be overrun by crowds of visitors, who will trample down the very vistas they hope to see. At any rate, they returned to Diamond City and, once we had parted, I regretted not taking time to write so I could send a letter with them. As it is, I must entrust this letter to a gentleman who calls himself Theed (or Seed, or possibly Teed—it is difficult to understand the poor fellow, as he has no teeth). He assures me he is headed for civilization, however, and will post this when he can.

  I am not sure what the winter months hold for me. Be assured that I am in good company and have good health. I will write again when I have the opportunity, although mail service among the Crow is a humorous image to hold in one’s mind. If this letter does reach you, please know that my adventures come second to the affection I hold for you all,

  Win

  “Well, I’ll be,” Mick said. “That Win, he’s an interesting fella, making friends with the Crow. I always thought they were an ornery bunch. Well, if you don’t think me rude, I’d better git. Georgia’ll tan my hide if I don’t get back with the news. For once, Angus’ll be the last one to know!”

  “Good seein’ you, Mick.” Gus rose and stepped off the porch with him. “You tell Georgia to come along next time. We don’t want to lose you to her wrath.” Gus and Mick exchanged pleasantries as Mick tightened his cinch strap and mounted his horse.

  Alone with Meg, Jeb stared at the letter. “The man is still in love with you, Meg. I thought he’d have moved on by now.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, are we going to argue every time we hear from Win?” Meg sighed in exasperation.

  “Well, he and I sure never used the word ‘affection’ in reference to each other!”

  “Jeb, Win closed his letter with kind words to us all. Can’t you hear it? He wants to be in the Yellowstone, not here. But he also wants to share it with us. He doesn’t love me the way we love each other. I don’t love him the way I love you.” She reached for his hand. “You have to believe that, or every time he writes, we’re going to fight! I expect you to rise above this silly jealousy. He needs you, Jeb, far more than he needs me.” Meg leaned back in her chair. “I suspect you’re more annoyed with him because he’s caused you so much worry. You didn’t tell me about the news story you and Gus saw.”

  Jeb swept James into his arms and tossed him gently in the air. James giggled. Cradling their son, Jeb turned to Meg. “Jealousy is not becoming in a man. I apologize.”

  “Particularly when there are no grounds for it.” She smiled. “You are forgiven.”

  Two weeks later, Georgia and Mick rode up to the ranch together. Meg’s new icebox had arrived, so instead of waiting for Jeb to come by and get it, they thought they would take a pleasant drive up to visit and bring it along. Besides, they were eager to hear more news. They pulled their wagon into the yard, smiling from ear to ear. Georgia waved another letter from Win.

  Once settled on the porch, Georgia took James from Meg and covered him with kisses.

  “When was this one written, Jeb?” Meg asked and then turned to Georgia. “His last one was seven months old!”

  “See? I told you!” Mick pointed his finger at Georgia. “She didn’t believe me!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s ridiculous for a letter to take so long in this day and age.” She bounced James on her knee and his delighted gurgle carried away her grumpiness.

  “This one’s dated April 10th,” Jeb said, “only two months ago. Win must have found a more reliable postal courier.”

  He seated himself on the porch railing and read the letter aloud:

  Dear Jeb, Gus, and lovely Meg,

  Today is April 10, 1870.

  I hope this letter finds you in good health.

  Over the winter, we had the pleasure of running into our friend Albert Rothenberg. He was very happy to see us because when Bouchard and I found him he was bound to a tree, looking mighty miserable. He was a prisoner at a Crow village, unable to convey to them that he had come in peace. You can just imagine the look of surprise on his face when Bouchard and I arrived. He immediately called out to me and nearly wept with relief when we asked that his life be spared and the Crow reluctantly slit his bindings.

  The Crow soon forgot their aggression toward him and instead became intrigued with his wine-stain birthmark, which they saw once he removed his hat to wipe away the nervous sweat from his forehead. It made for an interesting communal experience; one of Birdy’s uncles had a similar birthmark on his stomach, and her family considered him to have special gifts because of it. I cannot say what gifts he supposedly had, as the word for “magic” has a variety of meanings, but Rothenberg’s status was elevated to a white person unsuitable to slay, and we left it at that.

  When it appear
ed that Rothenberg would live through dinner after all, he calmed down considerably and was finally able to ask, “How is our Miss Jameson? I half expected to see her walk into camp as well.” To his pleasure, I produced your Meg’s photograph. He was overjoyed upon seeing it and said, “Ah, Miss Jameson, what a delightful creature.” He got no argument from me.

  Finding Rothenberg turned out to be invaluable for us. He was on his way to Helena when he was detained by the Crow. The three men we met last year—Bill Peterson, Charley Cook, and Dave Folsom—generated interest in the area, as predicted. General Henry Washburn, the Surveyor General for Montana Territory, is gathering support for a second expedition into the Yellowstone using maps and information from Cook and Folsom, who works in Washburn’s office. With a good word from Rothenberg, I feel I might find a spot on this crew. Albert and I send our kindest regards to all, as does Gabriel Bouchard. After listening to the two of us talk about the residents of Paradise, he feels kinship toward you as well.

  Win

  Gus slapped his knee contentedly. “Good for him. He sure had an itch when that Rothenberg fella came through here. I hope he gets a spot.”

  “Some of his stories sound like close calls,” Meg said. “I worry sometimes.”

  “Win’s been living off his wits and charm all his life. Believe me, he’s fine.” Jeb sounded a bit perturbed. No one mentioned that Rothenberg had referred to Meg as Miss Jameson and not Mrs. Dawson, and that, apparently, Win hadn’t bothered to correct him. She wondered if there was any other reason for Jeb’s crankiness.

  “James, you are growing like a weed.” Georgia bounced James on her lap while the others looked on. “How’ve you been feeling, honeybee?” she asked Meg, who was pregnant again.