Stranded

by Matthew P. Mayo

  Also, Bub and Bib are as lean as a pair of bone-rack oxen can be. Papa swears this grass will fatten them enough for the last pull up and over these stunning mountains. The grass looks sparse and on the verge of browning all over, but the oxen, once hobbled and turned loose, appear quite content to graze it down.

  I see once again I have nibbled at these pages without saying much. The firelight is low, I am tired, and there is much to do tomorrow. I will leave off for now.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1849

  * * *

  The tomorrow I mentioned last night came and went, busy as I expected. I find myself alone in camp as the sun drops away, the first time that has happened. I am not particularly worried, as I know Papa and the boys are off hunting for meat we will need to continue the journey. And hunting is, as Papa says, mostly luck, with a little dumb luck tossed in for good measure. That aside, I had a big day myself. I am not tired and there is much to relate, and so I shall, while the day’s light is still with me.

  It began, as all our days do, at the campfire. I fed them up big for their day of hunting, and packed biscuits and dried fruit for them to take, besides. Papa sent the boys off to get themselves ready, while he lingered at the fire, his hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee. Rarely will you find a man who enjoys his coffee as much as Papa.

  “Now, Janette,” he said. “We will do our best to make it back here by dark. It will depend on the buffalo. But I have seen much good sign these past several days, so I am inclined to believe we will have good luck.” Papa leaned closer to me and winked, “But it wouldn’t hurt if you were to wish us luck, maybe say a little prayer.”

  “I can do that, Papa. I was going to anyway.”

  “That’s my girl.” He searched around himself as if he’d misplaced his hat again, patted his coat’s front pockets. “Now, where did I put that rifle?”

  I could not help but smile at him. He’d leaned the rifle against the wagon, within arm’s reach. I looked over toward the gun, pointed with my head.

  He followed my gaze. “Ah ha, now Janette, what would I do without you?”

  I said what I always say when he asks that, the same thing I’ve said since I was a little one. “You’ll never have to worry about that, now, will you, Papa?”

  “Girl, I am happy to hear that.” The thing he always says. It is one of many habits of conversation he and I get up to. I don’t think he does the same with the boys, but I am not sure what sort of talk they get up to when they are out hunting or working together in the fields. I want to know, but only because I am jealous of the time they get to spend with him. Why, I thought for the hundred-and-tenth time, did I have to be born a girl?

  “Remember, Janette, keep that scattergun nearby, you understand? There is a handful of shells, enough to do the job. Keep them dry, and close to hand. I mean it, keep that gun close. I don’t like leaving you here but I can’t very well take you and the boys, and I trust you more than them to hold down the fort, keep the fires burning.” He winked at me again. I knew he said that last bit to help me feel better about being left behind. And I reckon it helped a little, but not for long.

  “I’d leave one of the boys here, but that would be Thomas and I know he’d be underfoot. And besides, I’ll need that young horse to carry back all the meat we’ll be making.”

  “It’s all right, Papa. I understand.”

  Papa stared at me then. “Nearly fifteen now, is it?” He shook his head, his worried eyes relaxing, the sides of his eyes wrinkling like they do when he smiles. “You are the vision of your sainted mama, save for your dark hair where your mama’s was corn-silk gold. But make no mistake, you are your mama’s daughter.”

  “I am your daughter, too, Papa.”

  He acted as if he hadn’t heard me, and kept shaking his head. “And kindly like she was. You’re nearly her age when we were married. Can’t believe it’s been six years since we lost her.”

  He got that cloudy look again, his smile faded, and a little morning breeze pushed those stray strands of gray-white hair around his cheeks. He looked very old to me then, looked older every day, if I have to be honest about it. And I always try to be honest about such things.

  I reckon life on the trail will do that to a body, day in and day out, walking the whole way, working the switch in the air over the backs of the oxen, teasing then onward, westward toward Oregon. We hear nothing but the grating of the iron wheels over the never-ending rock and jagged rubble, rolling too hard down washes, barely making it up the other side again, Papa yelling for us to not get behind the wagon lest the oxen falter and roll backward.

  But the grinding wagon wheels and hubs screaming for grease aren’t the only things that make noise in the wagon. Utensils and tools rattle and smack every time we drop back down hard off a rock or roll into a rut. I was a fool to think we could somehow manage to keep from breaking Mama’s four prize teacups. I did manage that very thing, every one of them.

  Well, there is one last cup that, though chipped, still looks like a cup and not a handful of jagged pieces of cup. I have vowed to myself and to Mama that I will protect that cup and use it once we get to Oregon Territory. It rides in the very middle of my clothing, cushioned by stockings and underthings.

  Papa has not told me so, but I do believe in my heart of hearts that he has grown bone tired of the journey west. Might be he didn’t want to light out in the first place, but Papa has never been one for changing his mind once a course is set. I think all the planning gathered speed like a train chugging downslope, then got ahead of him, out of his grasp, rolling faster and faster. And then he up and sold our home place to Cousin Merdin, and that was that.

  Now here we are, much of the way to Oregon, with the most difficult stretch still to come, a long leg of the journey over mountain passes that will require us all to be as sharp as knives. But I don’t see that keen edge in Papa’s eyes. I have not seen it in a long time, if I am honest about it.

  As if he were reading my mind, I caught Papa staring east again, toward Missouri. “I thought it would be worth it. All that fertile farm land the pastor’s brother wrote of. I almost wish that rascal had not sent those letters. Maybe if I had not read those accounts by them who have already made this confounded trip . . .”

  I’m not certain he meant for me to hear that. It was almost as if he was speaking to himself and did not know I was there, my ears working.

  Then he smiled and pulled in a deep breath and straightened his six-foot-tall frame. “Your mama would be so proud to see you now.”

  “And the boys,” I said, in my best mother-hen voice.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. He looked over his shoulder at my two brothers, Thomas poking and punching at William, William gathering gear and trying to ignore Thomas. “But those lads, they’re different. They’re not like you.”

  “I hope not,” I said. “They’re boys!”

  That got a laugh out of him, then William said, “Pa—”

  But Thomas shouted over him. “I expect if we don’t leave soon we’ll miss our chance to find a buffalo today!”

  They watched Papa as he poked at the cookfire, sparks spiraling up into the pale early sky. Papa winked at me and pretended he’d not heard them. This was almost as fun as a stage play.

  Thomas was still tugging on his second boot. He’d snugged his hat so tight onto his head it mashed his ears out. I try to get him to go easy on his poor ears, but he has always been that way, in a hurry and no cares at all but for what is right in front of him. Sometimes he reminds me of a dog. I really will have to let him be.

  Papa kissed me on the forehead, grabbed up his rifle, and walked past the boys. “I am on my way to find buffalo. What are you two laggards going to do all day?”

  William pushed away from the wagon where he’d been leaning and fell in line, with Thomas bolting after like a spring colt, stumbling forward on his long legs and pushing on William to edge him out of the way.

  “Bye bye, Janette!” shouted Thomas, and
William, like Papa, only waved, already intent on the task ahead.

  “Goodbye! Goodbye!” I shouted, waving and smiling. “Bring me back a buffalo robe!”

  I watched them a moment more, my hand above my eyes as if I were saluting them. Really I was blocking the sun warming in from my left, up high like a sizzling egg in a vast blue pan. It is odd to me that such a cold night as we had could be scooted out of the way by such a warming thing.

  Papa and the boys disappeared from my view for a moment and I felt a sudden coldness in my gut. Then there they were again, lined side by side, nearly perfect, along a ridge of bonelike rock, hard and gray and unforgiving. They waved to me and one of them, I wager it was Thomas, shouted something, but I could not make out the words. Whatever he said was carried off, broke apart like old, crumbling tree bark gone powdery in a breeze.

  They waved big, wide exaggerated waves, funning me, I know, and I was tempted to shout back something, anything to them, but for once I had no notion of what to say. Why is that? I waved, the same as what they gave me, a foolish long thing that I kept up long after they stepped down the other side of that rocky ridge and out of my sight. I dropped my left hand from my salute and walked the few yards back to camp.

  I collected the tin breakfast plates, feeling a whole lot more than my usual twinge of jealousy of the boys and their time with Papa. Now and again I still resent being a girl, though over the past couple of years I have grown somewhat used to the idea, regarding it less like a punishment and more as something I am stuck with that must be endured.

  I have also come to realize that women are stronger than men. And I do not say that lightly, for Papa is a strong man in most all ways. But how else could I cope with all that needed doing around camp while they hunt for buffalo? Then they will bring it back with them and I will have to cook it.

  I prodded the low coals with a stick, got down on my knees with my skirts bunched in one hand, and blew on the coals to revive them. In short order, steam rose off the washing-up water. And then it came to me—this would be the only time since we took to the trail back in June in Missouri that I would be alone, well and truly alone. I felt a zing of excitement along my backbone.

  Three months, it had been. Three long months with little time to be alone, never really out of sight of any of them. I smiled and rubbed my hands on my apron. A new and exciting feeling bubbled in me as if I had been given some surprise gift, all wrapped and tied with ribbon. It could be anything! The day could bring about anything at all.

  With a tin cup of weak coffee in one hand, I stood and looked around me at the little valley Papa had chosen for us to rest up in. There were Bub and Bib, hobbled and noses down in the sparse green grasses, their jaws working away at what must have tasted as good as hard candy to me.

  “Eat up,” I said, nodding toward the oxen. “Who knows what those mountains yonder will bring.” They ignored me. I did the same to them and faced the mountains to our west full on. They were tall and not far away.

  Rocky arms, like broad wings, all but closed in the valley. A quick gust of cold air chilled me then. Pretty as it is, I will be glad to leave this place once we have dealt with the buffalo meat.

  In the meantime, I do not feel guilty one bit about having all this time alone, all to me, and no one else. It’s like a birthday feeling. “I will relish this day of solitude.” I said it out loud. My fancy words had no effect on any living thing within earshot— the only ones I could see, anyway, them being Bub and Bib. They kept eating grass.

  I do not know what I expected, but the birthday feeling had already begun to pinch out. I did my best to kindle it up again. There I was, all alone and faced with a pretty day. I had chores to tend to, of course, but there wasn’t enough of those to worry about. They wouldn’t take the entire day.

  That’s when the two Janettes in my head commenced to bickering. There was the one who wanted to lie on that big boulder close by the wagon and nap in the sun like a lazy barn cat.

  Then there was the Janette who frets on everything. She felt sure Papa and the boys would find their buffalo soon and be back before I knew it. Somehow she always wins. She told me that surely this would be a good day to get a leg up and over the baking.

  So I let myself sigh long and loud and figured if I worked steady until midday, I could have enough biscuits and loaves for a few days, anyway. The way the boys ate, it wouldn’t take long for them to look at me as if I was starving them. Since they were out there making meat, as Papa said hunting was called, I reckoned it would be shameful of me to spend the day doing what I wanted.

  And then there was the washing, something I hatefully admitted my time would be better spent on. Having the river at hand was a boon I could not ignore. It would make my life easier to do the washing with all that fresh water so close. And without Papa and the boys underfoot.

  I sighed again for good measure and set to the tasks, trying and not succeeding in the least to not feel resentful. Papa was one thing, but the boys are doing the only thing I have longed to do for months now, which is to see something, anything, beyond this endless trail.

  And it’s only because they are boys and I am a girl. They get to do the things I loved doing back home in Missouri. Wander through the woods, see what I could see beyond those jagged mountain peaks. No matter how close we get they keep themselves out of reach, even though we have been rolling toward them for weeks.

  I did my best to tamp down the raw, bitter feeling I let bubble up inside me. It wasn’t doing me any good. And it certainly wasn’t getting any work done. I dragged the big washtub off its hooks on the side of the wagon, and set it by the fire. Then I slid the bails of the water buckets onto the hooks of the shoulder yoke and lifted it onto the back of my neck. I lugged the entire swinging affair down to the water’s edge.

  I got close, and while I looked for an easy path, I commenced to slide down the bank, but stopped myself with the help of a big tree root. It is bent like a person’s leg and poking from the riverbank, perfect as you please, right where I wanted it.

  The washing took longer than I expected, but mostly because I stopped more than I ought, keeping a sharp eye toward the southwest, where they had gone. Not that I wished them back so soon, but I did expect to hear the boom of Papa’s rifle. This land is a big place, and they likely had to walk far to find buffalo, deer, any sort of game. But as much of this land is not treed, the sound of such a forceful gun should carry on the wind.

  Early in the afternoon a cold breeze out of the west filled the wagon canvas, slapping and whipping it like a banner. I know by now not to cinch the ends tight because the wind works it harder, like a rooster fighting his own reflection in a puddle—no matter what, he will not win. So I let the breeze carry on through. I hoped it might cart off some of the smells of food and the boys and wood smoke. I let it blow and continued with the washing. By my estimation we still had three or so hours of sunlight when I finally finished.

  I figured my next chore should be to gather more firewood, at least enough for another day, since Papa said we will be here for three days, then move on through the pass. In truth, it doesn’t look like much of a pass to me, and I almost said so to Papa when we first arrived, but I held my tongue.

  As if he was reading my thoughts, Papa had winked at me, said not to worry, he’d scout it. I thought maybe they’d inspect it this morning, but the pass, if it is one, sets west of the wagon tongue. Which is north of where they headed. I will ask him about it tonight.

  Big winters in the mountains, Papa had said. Indeed, and with today’s wind, I believe it. The air has already taken on a cold touch, like a kiss from the dead.

  As the washing dried on my zigzag of rope lines, and the bedding aired and sunned on the big rock I had wished to nap on, I gave in to my laziness. I sat down and sipped hot mint tea and reread one of Papa’s newspapers. As I have said, he and I are the only ones who enjoy the written word. William now and again will indulge in a few pages of the Good Book, but he soon cl
oses the cover and seeks distraction elsewhere. Thomas . . . I do not know about that boy. I know he can read, but I do not know how he learned, so fidgety is he. Me, I read for the pictures I see in my head.

  Some writers, notably the newspapermen, I have found, have such a way with how they put together all those words that I find myself not minding much that I reread them, time and again. Even if some of those writers are featherbrained in their thinking and too fancy with their descriptions. They can talk and talk about a thing and never get to the point. That behavior galls me, though I fear I am prone to it in these pages.

  I don’t have much other choice, as we are limited in our materials. There is a small but solid selection of newspapers, two guidebooks for emigrants heading west to Oregon, both with surprisingly little useful information about our chosen route. And of course, the Riker family Bible, much of which I know by heart.

  Even if the Bible’s words sound good, I admit that much of their meaning hasn’t come to me yet. I have faith that if I keep on reading it, someday it will all make sense. I hope so, anyway. I have spent far too long with that big book on my lap to miss out on any secrets it may have for me. I harbor a fear that I will one day realize it isn’t any deeper a well than I have already discovered, and that the water I have sipped from it is all I will get. Time will tell. For now, I remain thirsty.

  I had finished rereading the first few pages of The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and Califor nia by Lansford Hastings, when I heard a noise behind me. I would like to say that being in Indian country I have grown bold enough that I made a grab for the shotgun first thing. But no, in these pages I will tell no lie.

  I admit the first thing I did was to mark my spot on the page with a finger and look up, squinting at the waning day’s sun, off to the west. I still did not see anyone walking toward camp, weighted down by humps and tongues—the tastiest cuts of a buffalo, as we have come to learn.