Stranded

by Matthew P. Mayo

  If they do not show up soon, I will need to follow suit and go hunting. It is not something I have done much of. But I know I can do it, for I will need food and will have little choice. I eat sparingly, so that when they do return we will have enough of the basic victuals to carry us through the mountains.

  How far we are from Oregon I do not know. But it must be some distance yet, since Papa felt it prudent to hunt buffalo to make enough meat to last us through. The thought does not hearten me.

  I spend half my days scanning the valley floor to the east and the ridges all around. The other half of the time I curse myself for not doing something, anything to help them. But what is it I can do? I gather more firewood. Perhaps if I keep a fire burning day and night, I will be able to at least guide them back to me.

  I move the oxen to spots where they will find more to eat, but those spots are further and further from the wagon. I have considered hitching them and moving the camp, though not far enough away that when Papa and the boys return they would not see me. It is a good enough plan, but I have never hooked the oxen alone. The yoke weighs more than I do—I can barely lift it.

  I don’t believe Bub or Bib would ever do me harm, but they are big beasts and could hurt me without knowing it. They are becoming irritable and getting them to the river to drink has become a dreaded daily chore. I tried hobbling them close to the river one day, but that night I heard one of them kick up a fuss and in the morning found the bank had given way beneath Bib’s great weight. I had to lead him upriver to a low spot where he could climb out.

  I keep the camp tidy and contained, not strewing our goods far from the wagon, for fear Papa will return in a hurry and tell me we must move and right away! Such thoughts spark bright inside me.

  Leaving in a hurry will be fine with me, for it means Papa is back safe and sound. But it hasn’t happened yet. Likely the only direction they could travel was due southwest. It stands to reason they found it near-impossible to retrace their steps. Perhaps the landscape is too steep! It is far easier to climb down a rock face than it is to climb back up it. That means they have to take a long route around the impediment. In my mind, this is a rocky ridge requiring a good many days of work to lead them back to me.

  I refuse to dwell on notions of what may have befallen them. There are far too many possibilities and none of them are good.

  I choose instead to believe they are merely lost. Their job is to make it back to me, my job is to make certain they can find me.

  Yesterday I dragged a long pine pole back to camp but instead of chopping it into burnable lengths, I left it whole. I lashed it snug with rope behind the wagon seat, then tied it to the top of the end rib of the wagon. It stuck straight in the air, another ten feet or so above the rib. Before I lashed it I tethered one of William’s long white undershirts to it like a flag, tying each arm to the pole. It did not wag much in the breeze, but by the time I had the entire affair in place and realized I should have used something lighter in weight, it was late in the afternoon.

  At least it is something for them to see, I told myself. Tomorrow I will take it down and tie something lighter up there. Perhaps strips ripped from my own underthings. I do not know, but I will figure it out.

  That is how I spend much of my time, slowly thinking about each step of a thing that needs doing. It is not a natural way of progressing for me, as I am more of a jump-in-the-water type of person. That brings to mind my dunking in the river days before and I shake my head.

  Yes, Papa, you are right. I am as you always say, hasty and rash. But I am trying, Papa. I am trying to be more like you.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1849

  * * *

  I have not written in some time, days in fact. If I am honest it has been one week. A whole week, and that makes two weeks and a day since Papa and the boys left that morning to go hunting. I refuse to let myself think of things that might have happened. I refuse to allow my mind to explore those ugly possibilities. Writing that is bad enough.

  But what will I do now? I know what I must do, I must survive alone. The way I see my situation, the road has forked before me. That leaves me with two possible paths of travel. One means I stay here waiting for Papa and the boys, who will surprise me one of these days, I know it for a fact. The other is that I must press on without them.

  But even if I chose that plan, which I do not like the idea of, I would have to figure out a way to hitch the team, and then drive through the mountains. There is not much of a trail from here, at least not as far as I can see. I am certain Papa knew of a way to get through these mountains from here, but it is a mystery to me. And I do not know what to do.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1849

  * * *

  Last night the decision I have been struggling with may have been made for me. The wolves came.

  Earlier I had cinched the pucker rope tight as I could, then blocked the rear opening with piled crates, the crockery, two sacks of bedding, and clothes. I tried to do the same with the front, but ended up trusting foolishly that a blanket pinned across the opening would be sufficient. But I could not shake the thought: What if something climbed into the wagon during the night?

  That is nearly what happened. I was awakened by the sounds of dozens of beasts clawing and fighting and pounding a ring around the wagon. I heard the grass swish against their feet, heard their disjointed panting, yips, and growls, and their gnashing barks all clouding together. Wolves.

  I have never been so fearful in all my days. I hope to never be that frightened again. Truly. Then, quick as a finger snap, all those wolves ran away from the wagon. If they hadn’t suddenly left, I am not sure I could have stood it another minute.

  My relief was short-lived, for what happened next sickened me to my very heart. I heard a loud snort, then a bellowing scream unlike anything I have ever heard. The oxen! The wolves had found them. I heard it all from the wagon. The screams terrified me. Yes, those big oxen scream pitiful death agonies. I pictured those gentle lads, Bib and Bub, for I guessed both were victims, stretched, trembling, big eyes so wide, foam dribbling from their mouths, long tongues stuck out like they do when straining under the great weight of their loads.

  And all the while I listened as the awful attackers circled, darting in, laughing in a foul, playful way, as if they were enjoying the affair, until they commenced to squabbling amongst themselves.

  I sat up straighter, wriggled free of the blankets and pawed for the shotgun. As my socked hand closed over it, I paused. What was I going to do? What could I really do except kill a wolf or two and maybe shoot the ox in the process? I would surely be surrounded, myself, by the wolves. Or it might be that I could frighten them off. I did not know what to do and for long seconds I panicked, kneeling in the wagon, hanging on the edge of action and cowardice.

  In what I am sure was less than a minute, though it felt an eternity, I heard the kicking and flailing of one big beast, then deep, hoarse, ragged breathing. Soon the growls and snaps swarmed over the sounds of a dying ox and that made my horrible decision for me.

  It was a black, clouded night, and I sat back once more, knowing my stuttering breath filled the air before my face, though I was unable to see it. I wept as silently as I could for myself, for whichever of the oxen had been so viciously killed— perhaps both of them—and still I was confused.

  Would I die here, alone, torn apart by horrible beasts every bit as foul as they appeared in my mind? Or would I be found by Papa and the boys? If not them, perhaps another late-season wagon? Surely this was a common route. We had seen ruts that Papa had assured us were made by others not long before us. Did he know that for a certainty? Oh, Papa, Papa, what have you done? What has happened to us all? Where are you, Papa?

  I sat in the wagon with my hands pressed to my ears, hoping the oxen would hook them with their great horns and kill every

  last one of the slavering wild dogs. But that was not the case.

  When I climbed out this morning—poking my head out
like a turtle peeking out of its shell—I was surprised at what I saw. Bub was still alive, though not well. He, too, had been savaged, but for some reason was spared death. Though for how long I do not know. I guess the foul beasts will return soon, maybe tonight. Skulking and killing under the cover of darkness, like all with criminal intent in their hearts.

  Off to the left I spied the dead thing that had been Bib. I would look him over later, but right then I avoided that chewed mess as much as possible and walked slow-like up to Bub. He was standing head down, nosing now and again at the sparse brown grasses but not interested in eating. It was plain to see why. His hide has been torn along his barrel, and even more so along his flanks, both sides, as if the damnable dogs were trying to eat him from the back to the front. His left-rear leg was injured low, with dried blood along his tendon. I don’t think they bit through, but it was not a pretty sight. Still, Bub was able to put some weight on it.

  I will relate with whatever amount of good feeling I can muster that it pleased me to see blood along Bub’s left horn, streaked and matted with thin, long gray hairs. “You got some licks in, Bub. I am proud of you, big fellow.”

  I looked all around us but saw no dead wolves. Hopefully the injured will die slow, pained deaths. That is not a charitable thing for me to say, but I do not care. Bub and Bib did not deserve this ill treatment, nature or no.

  When Bub saw me approach he lowed, a sad, trembling sound, his eyes wet as if he was crying. I know that sounds foolish, but it is how I took it. In truth, he was likely in terrible pain. I spoke to him in a quiet voice, offered him loving words that didn’t make a whit of difference. Maybe the sound of my voice and my hand gently rubbing his neck helped. I was careful to avoid the big red welts raised by wolf claws.

  I returned to the wagon and brought back what tinctures from our nostrums box I thought might help ease his pain. But Bub would have none of it. He shuffled away from me, swung his head slowly as if to tell me no, no, please leave me be.

  I am persistent, though, and fetched the mucky tub of axle grease. Papa had used the black goop on Floss when her shoulder was opened up two summers back. We think she was spooked in the pasture by something, and in her haste to scamper away she dodged too close to a nub of branch. It was a jagged wound but Papa stitched her up and then smeared axle grease all over that gash.

  “Helps the healing process,” he’d said. “And keeps the flies from getting in there and laying eggs.”

  Now I don’t think there’s much danger of Bub’s wounds attracting any flies, but I think the grease might feel soothing. I had never used it on a cut myself, so I can’t be certain. I figured I’d try it on one scratch, see how he reacted. I dipped my finger into the thick grease and ladled up a right knob of it big as a crab apple. With my other hand I smoothed his neck, and said, “Whoa, now, Bub. All going to be fine now, this will feel so nice to you, my friend.”

  He stood still while I touched the glob of grease to the cut. He tensed, his withers shivered, and that was it. I tried again, this time smearing grease onto the wound. He stepped to one side, something I didn’t blame him for one bit, but I think it didn’t hurt him any. He might even have liked it, it’s difficult to tell with an ox. I kept on.

  I managed to spread grease on a dozen more cuts before he grew impatient with me and limped off a ways. I left him be, as that’s what I’d want. Then I ventured over to take a look at Bib. He was a half-eaten dead ox. There is not much else to say about that. It made me sad to see it, and all the while I’d been huddled in the wagon, knowing it was happening. It was not a quick death for him, and that made me feel even worse.

  I headed back to the wagon and dragged out the shotgun and stuffed shells into my coat pockets, two on one side, three on the other. Then I made tea and sat in the sun, so tired all sudden-like. It feels as if each new day carves something off me. How much longer will this happen? Soon there will be little left of me, of the people I hold in my heart, of the animals that have kept me company.

  I do not know what to think next, and the minute after that, and the one following that. Will I keep going on like this until . . . ?

  There is little value in thinking this way, but I have nothing else left to think about. Tomorrow there will be another sunrise, but today I am sad. Sad because of what I am about to do. Once I make this decision, and do this deed, I will be stranded here, truly alone in the mountains.

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1849

  * * *

  Yesterday I could not write any more. Not until I did what needed doing.

  I kept thinking of what Papa would say. Usually I can hear Papa’s voice in my head. No, it is even more than that. It is as if he is standing behind me, talking to me over my shoulder. It is such a real feeling that at least once each day since he’s been gone I turn quickly expecting to see him. But even before I look, I remember the truth.

  And yet I still turn and he is still not there. Will he ever be again? Yes, I tell myself. He and the boys are lost. Just lost, not the other thing.

  I can leave this place, and I might, but it will have to be on foot. I cannot pull the wagon with one ox, and an injured one at that. I dare not wait longer to make a decision about Bub. His wounds are not good at all. He is pained and is not spending as much time as he ought looking for grasses to eat. I have tried dabbing the gashes with more axle grease, but there are too many claw marks raked all over him. His blood looks to be going bad, as those wounds are red and puckered. And besides, he will not let me near him anymore. At least not close enough to offer any paltry help I am able. All I can do is talk to him and watch him gaunt up from lack of food and water and too much pain. I must end that misery for him.

  The only good to come of it is that he won’t have to put up with winter. My decision is a horrible one, but it is necessary.

  Papa would have made it, so now it is my turn. I am no longer a child. Once it is done I will decide what to do next, to leave this place or stay.

  If I walk out I stand some chance of making it to a settlement. I know not how far Oregon is from here, for the simple fact that I don’t know exactly where “here” is. Somewhere in the northern reaches of the Great Rocky Mountain range, that is all I know. I have nearly worn holes in our map with my eyes, so often have I stared at it for a distinguishing mark, something to tell me where I am.

  But it is a poor map, and though it is no better than many maps others have used on their way west, most of those people had the advantage of traveling in the company of their fellows. Dwelling on what could have been only angers me, and I have enough to think on, thank you kindly.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1849

  * * *

  A thought came to me earlier this morning, something Papa said a long time back about a milk goat we had. Pesky, her name was. She had somehow hurt a foreleg so that it dangled at the shoulder. Papa had told me he was going to have to kill her, then butcher her for us to eat. I was eight or nine years old at the time and I recall kicking up a fuss that I am sure ol’ Widow Needlemeyer heard all the way down the road at her place.

  Pesky had been my friend, and when I told Papa that morning she was walking odd, he went right out to the barn and looked at her. I felt sure Papa could make her right as rain again. But it didn’t happen that way. And I felt responsible for her death.

  Papa explained that a farm animal with a broken leg is useless. That everyone and everything on the farm has to earn their way. He said it was kinder for him to kill her so she wouldn’t go on in pain, then she would continue to help us by feeding us. In truth, it took me some time to warm to the idea of eating her, but in such matters Papa brooked little argument. And he was right—Pesky was tasty.

  Now, faced with the same task, merciful though it might be to Bub, I found myself wavering, even though he was in obvious pain.

  You do what you must in life, Janette. “Papa?”

  I turned, saw nothing but the open brown meadow, and at the far edge, the wagon with the river beyond. I br
eathed deeply, my eyes closed, then I marched to the wagon for the shotgun and two shells.

  Even from three steps away I could smell the curdled stink rising off Bub’s claw wounds. The nasty wolves were succeeding in what they’d set out to do—to kill him.

  “Oh, Bub.” My tears came readily and I did not care. It seems girls do cry more than boys, and I am no exception, though I sorely wanted to be. That is neither here nor there. I had let Bub suffer for two days, and he was more miserable-looking with each passing hour.

  He swung his big head around toward me, his quiet, gentle face tight in pain, his big brown-black eyes wet like river rocks. His big muzzle was warm and his ears were cold, a sure sign he was unwell. Any longer and he’d be laid low with a worse fever.

  I gave him a good, long rubbing around the ears, along his broad forehead, the curly tight hair there so thick. I rubbed my palms over his bulged eyes and he leaned into my hand and snorted, his eyes closed.

  “I am so sorry for this, Bub.” I tried to keep my voice strong but gentle for him, too. I do not care if that doesn’t make sense. It does to me. “It is not what I want, nor Papa, of that I am certain.” My words made no difference.

  I cuffed away light, crusty snow and brittle grasses at my feet, trying to find him a tasty patch. It was all brown. The cold weather had settled in and would not back away again until spring. Bub nosed with little interest the dry, brittle grass.

  Poor Bub. I am certain he felt my fear, and knew what was coming to him. I tried to be like Papa and treat it as if killing is part of living, but there was nothing of Papa in me then. It was me, Janette, alone with a scattergun, and facing nothing I could fix a solid thought on.