“If we go to Oregon,” Faber was saying, “we’ll have to pass through Bannock country. The Bannocks are on the warpath against Americans, Broken Horn says, an’ will fight us every step of the way. But if we turn south an’ head fer Californy, stayin’ clear of Bannock country, Broken Horn says his bucks won’t pester us. That’s how matters stand. Speak up, men, an’ tell me how you feel.”
One by one the men spoke their sentiments, while their womenfolk listened in silence. Jed whispered, “Well, Mary?”
“It’s up to you, Pa. It’s whatever you want to do.”
“It’s the seedlings I’m thinkin’ about. To bring a whole wagonload of ’em this far, then give up—”
“Jed Bailey!” Faber called out. “You got anything to say?”
New England born and bred, Jed shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cocked his head at the sky as if looking for sign of rain, then said slowly, “Does it freeze in Californy, come winter?”
Tim Ramsey said no it didn’t, normally. Peter Kent and the two trappers agreed. Faber let his eyes run over the crowd. “Any more questions ’fore we take a vote?”
“Get on with it!” a man shouted. “Call the roll!”
“All right.” Faber took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Joshua Partridge.”
“Here!”
“I know you’re here, you blamed fool! How do you vote?”
“Californy!”
“Frank Lutcher.”
“Californy!”
“Matthew Honleiker.”
“Californy!”
And so it went, down through the list until forty-nine names had been called. Now, with only one name left, the wagon captain paused, looked at Jed, then said, “Jedidiah Bailey.”
Jed studied the blue sky and the far reach of parched land to the west. At last he said, “A man can’t grow decent apples in country where it don’t freeze.”
“That ain’t an answer, Jed. How do you vote?”
“Oregon.”
Mary heard a murmuring run through the crowd. “Stubborn old fool … Jed Bailey and his damned apple trees … Let him git scalped… .”
Faber tallied the list. “Results of the vote. Fer Californy, forty-nine. Fer Oregon, one. Majority rules, as agreed. We’ll pull out first thing in the mornin’ fer Californy.” He looked angrily at Jed. “Forty-nine of us, anyhow. I wash my hands of you, Jed Bailey. Meetin’s adjourned.”
The Bailey family walked back to their wagons in silence, Mary feeling proud of her pa, but not knowing how to put it into words. Mike went out to check on the grazing mules. Jed took a pair of wooden buckets and headed for the creek to get water for the seedlings. Mary readied supper. It being early July, dark came late and though the sun had sunk by the time she called her menfolk to supper—a good meat stew filled with fresh vegetables grown in the Fort Hall garden, baked beans sweetened with molasses, hot biscuits and dried-apple pie—there was still plenty of twilight left when they finished eating. Because she loved her pa and knew how worried he was, Mary treated him extra good.
“More pie, Pa?”
“Thank you kindly, Mary, but I reckon not.” He gave her a gentle smile. “You’re a fine cook, girl, just like your ma was. The man that marries you will get a real prize.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Mary said, but the praise pleased her just the same.
Lighting his pipe, Jed brooded into the fire while Mike got out cleaning stick, rag, and oil and set to work cleaning his rifle. Busy with the dishes, Mary did not hear the visitors approach until Peter Kent said, “Good evening, Mr. Bailey. May I have a word with you?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
Turning around, Mary got the fright of her life, for standing an arm’s reach away was that murderous-looking Indian, Broken Horn. Likely she would have screamed if she hadn’t looked past him and seen Charley Huff and Dave Allen. Dave Allen was smiling at her with those nice gray eyes, and somehow she knew nothing bad could happen when he was around. But watching Broken Horn sniff animallike at the stew simmering in the iron pot and the pie keeping warm in the open Dutch oven, she did feel a mite uneasy.
“You’re set on going to Oregon, I take it,” Kent said. “Do you plan to wait here until an Oregon-bound train willing to fight its way through Bannock country comes along?”
“Can’t hardly do that. Ours was the last train due to leave Independence this season.” A questioning look came into Jed’s eyes. “You got a proposition, Mr. Kent?”
“Yes. Charley and Dave here also want to go to Oregon. I’ll vouch for their reliability, if you want to hire them as guides. I’ve talked to Chief Broken Horn, and he’s agreed—for a reasonable consideration—to let you pass through his country.”
“How much?”
“One hundred dollars.”
“And these gents, how much do they want?”
“Two hundred dollars—apiece.”
Jed fiddled with his pipe. “That’s a sight of money.”
“It’s a sight of a job takin’ two wagons an’ three greenhorns through bad Injun country,” Charley grunted.
“There’s one thing I must make clear,” Dave said, looking first at Mary, then at Jed. “If you do hire us, you’ve got to do exactly as we tell you at all times.”
That was a mighty bossy way for a mere guide to talk, Mary thought angrily. Finishing the dishes, she carried them to the wagon and put them away. As she turned back to the fire, her mouth flew open in horror. Chief Broken Horn, fascinated by the smell emanating from the stewpot, had lifted its lid and was plunging a dirty butcher knife into its depths. This time she did scream.
“Stop that, you heathen!”
The Indian gave no sign that he heard her. Seizing the first weapon handy—a broom leaning against the wagon wheel—she made for him. As she raised the broom to strike, Dave Allen leaped toward her and caught her wrists.
“Easy, ma’am!”
Paying no attention to the commotion, Chief Broken Horn sniffed at the piece of meat he had impaled on his knife, diagnosed it as edible and disposed of it at a single bite. Finding the sample good, he dipped his bare hand into the pot, gobbled down its contents, then, still masticating noisily, stooped and picked up the apple pie. Indignantly Mary struggled against the steel-like grip on her wrists.
“Let me go!”
The nice gray eyes weren’t smiling now. “Don’t you want to go to Oregon?”
“Of course I do!”
“You won’t get there by beating Indian chiefs on the head with a broom. If you hit Broken Horn, he’d be so insulted he’d kill us all first chance he got!”
It was too late to save the pie anyway, so Mary let go of the broom. “All right, Mr. Allen. I won’t harm your precious Indian. Now let me go.”
The grin came back to his face, and he released her. “That’s better.” He turned to Jed. “Think you can control your daughter?”
Jed looked questioningly at Mary. Shamefaced, she dropped her gaze to the ground. She was still trembling with anger, not only at Chief Broken Horn but also at these two trappers who, to her way of thinking, were heartlessly taking advantage of her pa. Why, five hundred dollars was half of the family’s lifetime savings! But this was a man’s world, and it was not her place to object.
“I’ll make no trouble, Pa. I promise.”
“That’s sensible talk,” Dave said. He nodded to Jed. “It’s set, then. We’ll pull out first thing in the morning.”
West of Fort Hall the trail followed Snake River across flat, monotonous sagebrush desert, with mountains faint in the heat-hazed distance to the northwest and the green, swift-flowing river often lost deep in lava-walled canyons. Jed drove one wagon, Mary the other, except when the road got too bad, at which times Dave would tie his saddle horse to the tail gate, climb to the driver’s seat, and take the reins. He drove as he did everything else, with a casual skill which the mules recognized and responded to, though the stubborn brutes gave Mary all kinds of trouble.
“Pa is a smart man.”
“What’s he going to do with those seedlings?”
“Raise apples. Back home he had the finest apple orchard in the state.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Ma died a year ago, and it took the heart out of Pa. He got restless, hearing about the free land in Oregon and how scarce fresh fruit was out there. He kept talking about it, and I thought a change might do him good.”
The wagon was on a perfectly level stretch of trail now, and there was no reason why Dave shouldn’t turn the reins over to her, but he lingered. “Kind of hard on a woman, ain’t it, leaving her friends and all?”
“Pa and Mike are all that matter to me.”
“Most girls your age think more of catching a husband than they do of their pa and brother.”
The way he put it exasperated her. “You make getting married sound like trapping.”
He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I meant no offense. But judging from what I’ve seen of women, most of ’em do have men on their minds when they get to be your age.”
“I’ll bet they pestered you no end when you lived in civilized country.”
“Well, they did, if you want the truth.”
“Is that why you ran away and turned trapper?”
“Nope. I just wanted to see what was on the other side of the hill.”
“Did you find out?”
“Sure. Another hill—with another side to it.” He stopped the wagon, handed her the reins and climbed down. Mounting his horse, he said with a grin, “Don’t say anything to those mules, gal. Maybe they’ll think I’m still driving and won’t give you no trouble.”
Angrily she watched him gallop away. Then she gave the off-wheeler a lick with the whip that made him jump as if he’d been scalded.
FOR A WEEK they traveled west without molestation, save for the torment of heat, dust, and monotony. Dave said the fact that they saw no Indians didn’t mean the Indians hadn’t seen them. Chief Broken Horn had ridden ahead, he said, to warn his people that the party of whites was coming; and scouts watching from ridge tops likely were noting the progress of the wagons.
“We won’t be safe,” Dave said, “till we’re into the Blue Mountains. And we’ll have company before we get out of Bannock country, you can bet on that. When we do, Charley and I will tell you how to behave. Make sure you listen.”
The two trappers had brought along several extra horses to pack their gear, and when Charley suggested that one of the animals’ loads be stowed in a wagon, freeing the horse for Mike to ride and accompany him on hunts for fresh meat, the old trapper made himself a friend for life.
From dawn till dusk, Mike tagged after Charley, listening with youthful awe to Charley’s rambling tales of beaver trapping, Indian fighting and wilderness adventures. Mary was aware of the relationship that existed between boy and man, but she saw no harm in it.
One evening they camped in a grassy swale bare of trees, with the river five hundred feet below. It was quite a chore lugging up water for the seedlings; and by the time it was finished, Jed was done in. He lay down on the ground with a weary sigh.
“Jehoshaphat, I’m tired! Hungry too. What’s for supper, Mary?”
Mary was exhausted; the fuel was scant, and what there was of it refused to burn. “Nothing,” she said shortly, “unless somebody fetches me some decent firewood.”
“Mike,” Jed said, “cut your sister some wood. Hustle, now!”
Charley and Mike were squatting nearby, the old trapper rambling on while they boy listened intently. Mary gave her brother a sharp look. “Mike!”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear your pa?”
“What’d he say?”
“He told you to fetch me some firewood.”
“Aw, fetch it yourself. That’s squaw work.”
Mary stared at her brother. Jed sat up with a scowl. “What did you say, son?”
Mike flushed, gave Charley a sidelong glance and muttered, “Cutting firewood is squaw work. Ain’t it, Charley?”
“Why, yeah, boy,” Charley answered, scratching his ribs. “Amongst Injuns, that’s how it is. The buck kills the game an’ brings it home, an’ his squaw skins an’ cooks it.”
Dave, who had just strolled up, looked at Mike and said, “Don’t believe everything Charley tells you, son.”
“But Charley knows all about squaws!” Mike said indignantly. “He’s had dozens of ’em! … Haven’t you, Charley?”
“Wal, not dozens—”
Mary put her hands on her hips. “I never heard the like! Stuffing a boy full of awful stories!”
“Mike, fetch Mary some wood,” Dave said firmly. “Jump, now! … Charley, you help him.”
Charley looked hurt. “Me? Me fetch wood?”
“If you want to eat, you’d better.”
After supper, Mary strolled off into the twilight and sat down on a boulder overlooking the whispering river. Though she’d promised her pa she’d make no trouble, the chore of feeding four hungry, ungrateful men three times a day was getting on her nerves; and she knew if she had to listen to any more of their idle chatter, she’d likely bust loose and say something she’d regret. Hearing a quiet step behind her, she looked around. Dave had followed her.
“Nice night.”
“Yes.”
“You’d ought not to wander away from camp alone. Some Injun might see you and pack you home with him.”
“Just let one try.”
Sitting down beside her, he lighted his pipe. “Charley don’t mean no harm. He just likes to tell big windies.”
“Has he had many squaws?”
“Two or three.”
“Did he—marry them?”
“Bought ’em.”
She stared at him, not sure whether he was teasing her or telling the blunt truth. Deciding he was telling the truth, she exclaimed, “Do you mean to say Indian women are bought and sold like—like horses?”
“Sure. A man picks out a squaw he wants, dickers with her pa and settles on a price. Some come higher than others, naturally. You take a young, healthy woman that’s a good cook, she’ll cost a man a sight more than a run-of-the-mill squaw would.”
“What if she doesn’t like the man that buys her? What if she refuses to live with him?”
“Why, he beats her. That generally makes her behave.”
“I think that’s horrible!”
His eyes were twinkling, and now the suspicion came to her that he hadn’t been telling the truth. She was dying to ask him if he’d ever owned any squaws, but blessed if she’d give him a chance to tease her further. Grinning, he held out his hand and helped her up. “Come on, you’d better get back to camp. You’re too good a cook to lose.”
THE BANNOCKS APPEARED while they were nooning next day. Seeing the squaws and children in the band, Dave said their intentions likely were peaceable, for Indians didn’t take their families along when they had war in mind. But watching the savages set up their teepees a quarter of a mile down the valley, Mary felt uneasy.
Chief Broken Horn, accompanied by half a dozen of the leaders of the tribe, rode into camp presently. Broken Horn made a long speech, emphasized by many dramatic gestures. The gist of it was, Dave said, that Broken Horn considered himself quite a great man. Had he not made forty-nine wagons turn aside from the Oregon Trail because the American emigrants feared him? Was it not only through his generosity and by his consent that this small party was being permitted to cross his lands after paying the toll he demanded?
“Can’t say as I like that kind of talk,” Jed muttered.
“Let him brag,” Dave said. “It don’t hurt us a bit.”
When the chief finished his speech, Dave frowned, then came over to Mary and said, “We’re going to have company for supper.”
“Ch
ief Broken Horn?”
“Yeah. He and six of his headmen. You’re to fix them a big feed, he says, with lots of stew and pie like you cooked for him back at Fort Hall.”
“I didn’t cook anything for him! He stole that food, and you know it.”
“Well, he tells it different. Anyhow he seems to like your cooking and wants more of it.”
“Do you mean to tell me I’ve got to feed seven of those heathen?”
“Afraid so. He says when he eats well, his dreams are good. He says if his dreams are good tonight, he’ll let us go on in peace. But if his dreams are bad—”
“Now, look here!” Jed cut in angrily. “The old thief made a bargain and he’s got to stick to it, good dreams or bad!”
“We’ve got to humor him,” Dave said, shaking his head. He looked at Mary. “Can you do it? Can you rustle up enough stew and pie to make them happy?”
Mary was tired and she was scared, but most of all, right now, she was mad. Seemed like all she’d done since she’d left home was cater to men, cooking for them, washing for them, mending for them. She hadn’t minded doing those chores for her own family because that was her job. But if this was a man’s land, why didn’t the men out here act like men? Why had Harlan Faber and the other men back at Fort Hall let an arrogant old Indian turn them aside from their original destination? Why didn’t Charley and Dave make Chief Broken Horn live up to his promise with no nonsense about dreams?
“All right,” she said wearily. “I’ll feed them. But you’ll all have to help me.”
Charley and Mike had killed an antelope and two deer the evening before, so meat was no problem. There was still half a barrel of dried apples left in the wagon, plenty of beans, sugar and flour, fifty pounds of potatoes she’d bought at Fort Hall, and a few carefully hoarded onions, carrots and dried peas. While Charley chopped wood and Dave carried water, she had Mike stretch a large square of canvas on the ground beside one of the wagons—on this her guests would sit. Brushing aside her pa’s objections that it was casting pearls before swine, she made him dig out the family’s best china, silverware, glasses, pitcher and a white linen tablecloth, which she laid and set on the canvas ground cloth. Except for the fact that her banquet table had no legs, it looked as attractive as any she’d ever set back home.”
A Century of Great Western Stories Page 62
