by Risner, Fay
The jostling of the moving wagon woke Miranda. She hurried to dress and climbed on the seat with Anselm. She scolded, “Why didn't you wake me?”
“I hated to do dat ven you vere sleeping so good. I saved you a cold biscuit.” He reached behind him and took the lid off a small pan, fished out the biscuit and handed it to her. “De coffee pot is by the pan. It might be cooled off by now, but you can get you a cup if you vant.”
“Oh, I want.” Miranda kissed her thoughtful husband on the cheek, before she nibbled at her biscuit and drank her tepid coffee.
They traveled through the Nebraska prairie filled with buffalo, antelope and jack rabbits. What an abundance of game for the men to shoot. They had fresh meat when they stopped to eat.
Miranda never tired of looking at the vast varieties of wild flowers, nodding their heads in the waving prairie grass.
One morning, she heard unusual sounds coming from the tall grass. A low haunting sound that imitated the wind. Wooo, woo-ooo, woo-ooh was followed by a stomping noise.
“Anselm, what was that?”
“Dey are prairie chickens I dink,” he said. “Keep vatching. Maybe you vill see dem.”
A shorter patch of grass was ahead of them. Perhaps grazed short by buffalo. Miranda watched as they grew near. Sure enough she saw some brown speckled birds that reminded of her of black and white Dominick hens.
The real show was the reddish gold males, doing a ritual dance. After the birds sang their woo-ooo song, they stomped their left foot. The birds pounding the dry ground made a resounding noise which was what Miranda heard before.
The birds repeated stomps with their right feet. The pace of the stomps sped up until the sounds came fast like drum roll beats. Suddenly, males leaped into the air, twisted and turned. When they landed, they kept stomping with their tail and neck feathers fluffed up.
They bowed to the females while they pumped air into the leathery orange sacks on each side of their neck. Their breasts swelled double in size.
The show continued as the wagons rolled past. The prairie chickens were oblivious about the train as the males tried to get the hens to pay attention. Miranda leaned over to look back. From what she'd heard about Indian rituals, she wondered if the braves had copied their war dances from the birds.
What she wasn't so crazy about was the dirt mounds the wagon bounced over, and the stupid, noisy prairie dogs that dug them.
Several of the animals kept watch when the wagons came close. They made loud barks to warned the others to scamper into their dens and hide until the wagons rolled by.
Piping plovers were thick in the tall grass. The birds didn't like their quiet space disturbed. While the slow moving wagons traveled close to them, they continually complained with their bell like whistles.
One day, the scout reported a large herd of buffalo was in front of them. Jim Coopersmith rode along the wagons to announce there wouldn't be any walking until the buffalo moved over. He ordered to keep the younguns in the wagons and be quiet. He didn't want shouting or loud noises to stampede the herd.
Now that was quite a sight to see. Buffalo surrounded the wagons, meandering along as if the herd was used to wagon trains. Miranda was pretty sure they just didn't understand what was happening around them.
After a hour of traveling with the train, something spooked the buffalo. With snorts and deep bawls, the herd took off and managed to avoid running into the wagons.
When the buffalo herd was a safe distance away, the wagon master sent men out to kill a few for meat.
The plant growth was sparse they rolled along. Miranda surmised, Anselm was right. Not any decent wood to make a coffin out of here. Houses would be built out of sod blocks if people tried to live in this desolate land.
Few trees struggled to live in the thick, tall grass. Most were grease wood. The largest amount of plants were prickly pear cactus with large yellow blooms and a great number of tumbleweeds.
In the middle of one night, Miranda woke up to a clucking sound. It reminded her of a turkey call. She raised up on an elbow to look, fearing a creepy crawler had finally found their bed. When she couldn't see what was making the noise, she woke up Anselm.
“Vat iss de matter?” He mumbled sluggishly.
“I hear something. What is that noise?” Miranda whispered.
Anselm listened intently. “It iss just a flicker tail. De are thick on de prairie. He won't hurt you.”
“What is a flicker tail?” Miranda hissed, watching for any movement in the dark.
“You watch for dem tomorrow. Dey are a small light brown animal vit a dark strip down their back and bushy tail. Dere right name is chipmunks.”
“Is that all?” Miranda declared, feeling safer.
“Dat iss all. He iss just looking for a girl-friend. If you lay real still and let me go back to sleep, he might not try to get friendly vit you,” Anselm said, chuckling.
“Very funny,” Miranda hissed as she flatted and covered up. She tucked the bedding under her just in case.
When the train arrived at Platte River, the bank on the far side looked far away. Some guessed the distance was about a mile. As the wagons crossed the water, they found it little more than an inch deep. The current wasn't strong enough to carry away the red clay mud riled up by the many wagon wheels.
After the train was safely across the river, the ground went dry fast. The dust, kicked up by the wheels, was so thick everyone wore kerchiefs over their faces. A white coating adhered to their skin and clothes. Even the animals were dust covered.
When the train camped for the night, it was hard to cook and eat food without getting it layered in flying dust.
The wind was so strong the lantern attached to Anselm's wagon cast circles of light on their camp. The dizzying effect of the wobbling light was enough to make Miranda queasy. At least, she thought that was what made her sick at her stomach. Was it motion sickness or her pregnancy?
Chapter 8
In that arid land, the oxen pulled the wagon over large rocks. Miranda held on to her seat as the wagon leaned one way then the other and lurched off the rocks.
She wondered if there was anything else ahead that could be worse than all the country they had traveled in. The mud mired trail in Kansas and the potholes and gopher mounds in Nebraska were rough going. The chocking desert dust had been terrible. With such low visibility, Miranda couldn't see the scenery. Now she thought her eye teeth would be jarred loose by the wagon's jolt over boulders.
The days all became alike. Until one dreadful afternoon when tragedy struck. Little Bobby Lee fell out of the Mast wagon. Sarie Lee screamed for Wilbur to stop. He tried, but it was too late. A front wagon wheel ran over the middle of the four year old.
Anselm stopped their wagon, and the men behind them did the same. Everyone came running to see if they could help. Wilbur leap-ed off the wagon and went down on his knees. He scooped Bobby Lee in his arms. Sarie Lee sobbed, and Jefferson Davis was crying.
Miranda saw an indention and dusty imprint of the wheel across the lifeless, little boy's midsection. Blood was oozing out of his nose, mouth and ears.
Miranda put her arms around Sarie Lee and hugged her and Jefferson Davis.
Coopersmith brusquely told Sarie Lee to prepare the boy for burial while men dug a grave near the trail. Miranda had the feeling he wanted to rush the family so the train wouldn't lose much time.
Miranda held her arms out to take the limp child. Wilbur handed his son over to Miranda. She laid him on the wagon tailgate and washed the dirt and blood off him. Next she dressed the child in what Sarie Lee called his Sunday go to meeting clothes and wrap him gently in the blanket Sarie Lee wanted used for a shroud. Sarie Lee sat down on the ground and Miranda handed her Bobby Lee while they waited for the grave to be dug.
Miranda hated the thought of burying that sweet boy, not much more than a baby, in a blanket. She walked over to the grave site to talk to Anselm. He was resting, leaning on his shovel handle, after he had taken h
is turn at digging in the hard, rocky earth.
She whispered, “Anselm, can we give the coffin to the Masts for Bobby Lee?”
Anselm squeezed her hand. “Na, you haf it full of your dings. We shouldn't unpack dem. Your china would be sure to get broken. De Masts knew de dangers of traveling in a wagon train and vat happens when someone dies out here in de vilderness.”
When everyone from the train gathered around the grave, Preacher Claymore read the twenty third psalm from the bible and prayed, “May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord shine his face upon you and be gracious unto you now that you are in Heaven. May the Lord lift his countenance upon you and give you peace Bobby Lee Mast. Amen.”
After the funeral, Jim Coopersmith pulled aside men with wagons behind the Mast wagon. He told them when the train started moving he wanted them to drive their wagon wheels across the fresh grave. He rode to the front and blew on his bugle.
With a grim face and tight lips, Anselm headed his oxen for the dirt mound.
Miranda squeezed his arm as she cried, “What are you doing?”
“Ve got to run over de grave and flatten it down,” Anselm said flatly.
Miranda's face went pale. “Oh, how dreadful. Why?”
“Mr. Coopersmith said we shouldn't leave a trace of a grave. Wild animals would dig de boy up. Indians might, too, looking or valuables to trade or a white man's scalp for their scalp belts.”
Miranda wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes as they drove over the dirt mound. “Poor Sarie Lee. If she sees this, I don't know how she can stand it. It must feel like her poor little boy is getting run over all over again. She sure needs a hug right now.”
That first night after Bobby Lee died, women made their meals, using the buffalo chips children gathered for the fires. While the women cooked, children gathered more buffalo chips to store under the wagon bellies in hammocks for the time the chips might be hard to find.
Some of the women cooked extra and carried the food to the Mast wagon, knowing Sarie Lee didn't feel like cooking.
That was one of the few evenings the travelers didn't gather to listen to music and visit. The whole camp was in mourning with the Mast family.
The routine when they made camp for the night was always the same. Some of the men watered and fed the horses and watered the oxen. Others guarded the cattle. Miranda always knew when the cattle settled down for the night. She heard the men singing as they rode around the softly lowing herd.
That night Anselm had to take his turn riding around the cattle to keep them from wandering off or Indians from stealing some of them.
Miranda hated the nights he wasn't close to her. She didn't sleep much those nights. Every noise seemed twice as loud. A coughing spell in one wagon, and a baby crying in another.
What she hated to hear worse was coyotes yipping as they ran after a jack rabbit or wolves howling at the moon. At least, she hoped what she heard was wild animals. Maybe it was Indians waiting to attack again.
She refused to sleep under the lean-to by herself. She rested on the coffin in the wagon. That didn't help her disposition any, but nothing comforted her at that moment in this God forsaken land full of wild beasts and savages.
It was a dangerous land that took the life of a little boy she was very fond of. She wanted out of this part of the country as fast as they could travel across it. Heaven help them if Oregon was as difficult to live in as this land.
There were times, they could see puffs of dust off in the distance. The men thought it was Shoshone Indians watching the train pass.
Through the desert, Miranda saw furniture and other items thrown off wagons to lighten the load so the teams would make it. Her heart ached for women who gave up items so dear to them.
Finally, the men decided any of the cattle that couldn't keep up should be left behind and any newly born calves. They had to make it to Oregon with the strongest cattle if the farmers were to have herds. Besides, the Indians might be satisfied with the strays and leave the wagon train alone.
It was gruesome to see the skeletons of horses and hides of cattle that met their death from starvation and thirst. Even worse was when they traveled by fresh graves that served as a warning for future wagon trains.
On one wooden cross was the name Sid Jones, kicked in the head by his mule. Everyone had heard the same alarming tales of death from mule and horse kicks. The crosses with the word cholera burnt on them was what spread fear through wagon trains.
Dust devils whirled around them, making the women clamp their hand on their bonnets and the men hang on to their hats. The wagons drove through shimmering heat waves and over ground divided by large cracks.
People kept their faces covered from the dust. It was hard to make out their eyes, nose and mouth sometimes, but there wasn't enough water to waste washing their faces and hands. The water was for drinking and to water the oxen.
Everyone despaired about their outcome when the train passed by a wet weather spring that had dried up. What a relief when the scout came to a spring with plenty of water. The train arrived at Barrel Springs the last of July. A very apt name for a hole of sweet water people dipped out by the barrel fulls as had every other traveler that made it that far.
When they reached Ft. Hall, Idaho, Miranda saw the log walls plastered against the clear blue sky. She remarked that was what a fort was supposed to look like.
The travelers were relieved they were on the last leg of the journey. Miranda wasn't about to celebrate yet. She had a dire feeling what was to come was just as bad in its own way as the country they had traveled across.
After the wagon train left the fort, the trail became steep. They had to cross over a mountain range. Everyone had to get off the wagons and what excess weight they hadn't left in the desert had to be unloaded now.
Anselm told Miranda her sideboard had to go if the wagon was to make it up the steep incline. She hated hearing the news, but after she watched the men strain to help oxen push each wagon up the steep grade she knew Anselm was right.
He eased the sideboard out of the back of the wagon and rolled it over to the side of the trail along with other discarded items from the wagons ahead of them.
Miranda studied the highboy bureaus, claw feet lamp tables, pianos, grandfather clocks, iron cook stoves and trunks. She felt like crying and knew many women ahead of her had felt the same way.
All the hard work, pushing the wagons up the grade, paid off with only a few minor accidents like harness breaks and broken wheels. The day came when wagon master Coopersmith relayed the word that Portland, Oregon was around the bend.
At Portland, Oregon, Anselm drove his wagon on a paddle boat and parked along with the other travelers headed for the Willamette Valley. In town, he bought supplies and filed a land claim. Besides the supplies, he filled every vacant space in the wagon with two feet tall cherry, plum, apple, peach and pear trees.
“My, that's a lot of trees. Why do you need so many?” Miranda asked.
“Dey are all different kinds of fruit. Vhen one quits bearing another vill start. Dat vay we vill haf income all summer long from de fruit once de trees bear,” Anselm explained.
Miranda walked along the boat deck to Sarie Lee and Wilbur's wagon. He was reloading their wagon for the trip to Willamette Valley.
Sarie Lee was reading a letter from her relatives. She looked so sad.
Miranda asked, “Everything all right at home?
“Yes, I wrote home about Bobby Lee's passing when we reached the fort in Idaho. Our kin just wanted to send us their sorries.” Sarie Lee had tears in her eyes. “It sure makes me plum sad to think about leaving Bobby Lee in the desert.”
“There aren't any words that will help you get through this loss. Only thing that makes the loss bearable will be time. Maybe now and then a hug will help. I have plenty of them to share with you,” Miranda said as she put her arms around Sarie Lee.
When the paddle boat eased away from the dock, the settlers were o
n the last leg of the journey to where they wanted to settle. The trip on the Columbia River was three hundred and twenty miles long.
When they reached the spot to disembark, the boat pilot parked as close as he dared to the bank, before he released the gang plank. The settlers hitched up the wagons and drove the oxen down the plank and through the shallow water to land.
The farmers that brought cattle to Portland had to keep the herd together when they were unloaded from the boat. Anselm was on horseback with the cattle while Miranda drove their wagon to shore.
From there the wagons took a trail through one of the snow capped mountain ranges. The land was thick with aspen trees, Douglas firs and spruce. Miranda was so glad to see the last of flat, grass lands filled with sagebrush and large boulders. The trail was steep and narrow with a view over the edge of the mountain that sometimes made Miranda wish she hadn't looked.
Tall Ponderosa pines covered the Cascade mountains. The green timber and white mountain tops touching the sky could be made out from miles away. Anselm told Miranda the Oregon Mountains bordered on the west of the valley and the Calapooga mountain range on the south side.
Traveling down the mountain trail was just as scary as the climb up. Anselm spent a lot of time using the brake to keep the wagon from running over the slow oxen. What a relief when the settlers reached the base of the mountains. They scattered out to find their piece of land. Miranda felt a great weight lifted from her as she looked around. The area was nicer than she had imagined after what she'd traveled through. This flat land would make for easy traveling.
Chapter 9
It took from early May until the end of September to reach this flat valley from Independence, Missouri. Anselm sorted out his cattle. When he headed the herd across the valley, Miranda gave Sarie Lee and Jefferson Davis one last hug and drove the wagon away from the rest of the settlers. Anselm traveled until he found the land that was their claim.
