Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie

by Kristiana Gregory

  Pa made friends with one of the Mormons, a man named Appleton M. Harmon, and they got to talking about something Brigham Young and his men in­vented on the trail to measure miles. It’s called a “road-o-­meter.” He drew Pa a picture in the sand and it looks like four or five wooden cogs attached to a wagon wheel. Somehow it works.

  The Mormons also have something like a thermometer that measures “barometric pressure.” This is how they know the altitude.

  Later

  We are camped at the Sweetwater River. I watched from shore while my brothers played in the shallows with some other children. The current is slow but still I worry they’ll be swept away.

  Independence Rock

  From a distance this sloped rock looks like a bear sleeping on its side. Up close, it’s huge and easy to climb. Folks have been going up to the top to see the view and carve their names. Some boys raced each other up, then fired pistols in the air to celebrate. Jake asked Pa if he could have a few sticks of dynamite to throw off the top, just to see what would happen.

  Pa thought a moment. When he said yes, Jake let out a happy yell.

  Pepper and I were at the river when we heard the explosion. We turned in time to see a puff of smoke floating down from the top. Some cattle took off running in fright, but were rounded up quick by men on horseback.

  I don’t understand why boys like such things or why Pa thinks dynamite is safer than rifles.

  The wedding was late afternoon, in the cool shadow of Independence Rock. Pepper was beautiful. She was barefoot with a wreath of wildflowers in her hair, and her dress seemed to float with the breeze. Gideon was so shy that when someone yelled, “Kiss the bride!” he blushed redder than a sunburn and just kept holding her hand.

  Soon enough there was music and dancing and food, plenty of it. Wade came up to me smiling, but instead of asking me to dance, he said, “Hattie, wanna play a trick on my sister?”

  He led me to their new wagon. Mrs. Lewis and the ladies had made up a cozy bed with curtains for privacy, and there was a lantern hanging from one of the hoops inside. Wade opened a sack that he had brung over earlier, and began pulling out pots, pans, and other trinkets, which he tied with string under the wagon.

  I brushed at my apron, nervous. Darkness had fallen. Soon we saw Gideon holding Pepper’s hand and leading her away from the campfire. Wade and I ran into the shadows.

  When the newlyweds climbed into their wagon, Wade whispered, “Get ready, Hattie.” He gave a little whistle and, to my surprise, out of the darkness appeared dozens of men and women, some children, too. All waited for about five minutes, real quiet.

  Finally Wade whistled softly. Two men hurried to the front of the wagon, lifted the tongue, and began running as if they was mules. Noise erupted from the pans clanging underneath. The crowd that had gathered ran alongside, whooping and yelling and banging spoons, making the wildest noise I’d ever heard.

  We followed the wagon until the men halted at the edge of the prairie, about a mile from camp. The noise stopped. For a moment we heard the perfect quiet of night: crickets and wind sighing through the grass. Then Wade began singing a hymn, in a beautiful slow voice: “. . . May our good Lord watch over you always . . .” After the first verse, everyone joined in, then slowly began walking back to camp where there was still music.

  Wade caught up to me. In the firelight I could see his green eyes and he was smiling. “That shivaree was some fun, wasn’t it, Hattie?”

  Now I was the one to feel shy. Before I could think of something to say, he took my hand and led me past the fiddler to join the other dancers.

  Another day

  About the Sweetwater River: Tall Joe says it got its name from some trappers who tried to get their mules across during a storm. One of the packs was full of sugar and when its saddle broke, in went 300 pounds of sugar.

  Rocks on either side rise up about 400 feet, forming a narrow river canyon called Devil’s Gate. The trail drops into nothing so the wagons had to drive on the outside, about half a mile away. It took all day.

  Some of us climbed to the top of the cliff for a view. It was spectacular, but it made my stomach turn to look over the ledge, the river was so far down. Tall Joe told us that a few years ago a young bride fell to her death doing what we’d just done.

  Another day

  My little brother Ben fell off the wagon seat just before noon as we were pulling to a stop. The wheels rolled over his left arm so that it hung like a broken stick. He cried and cried, while Pa set it in a splint.

  I ran among the families to look for brandy or rum or something to help his pain. I knocked at the Kenkers’ wagon and leaned in. Mrs. Kenker sat on a quilt knitting, her husband asleep beside her.

  When I told her about Bennie she said, “Oh my word, how terribly dreadful,” and set down her needles. She uncorked a jug and poured whiskey into a tin cup, about two inches deep. “Give this to your brother, dear, and he’ll not feel a thing.”

  I thanked her and hurried back to Ma, trying not to spill the whiskey. Soon Bennie was quiet and as Pa rocked him to sleep I remembered Mrs. Kenker’s knitting. Her yarn was the same color blue as Mrs. Anderson’s shawl that disappeared.

  I’m sure we have a thief among us and worried that I’m the only one who knows. I don’t want to bother Pepper about it, and Aunt June is so tired. Ma probably won’t believe me on account she says we must always respect our elders no matter what. Grandmothers don’t steal, is probably what she’d say.

  My cheeks and the back of my hands are peeling from sunburn. I rub in axle grease, but dust sticks to my skin. It is tiresome to feel dirty all the time.

  Later

  Six oxen died yesterday and one mule. After butchering them where they fell, we kept going. They’re too heavy to move and there ain’t time to bury them.

  Tall Joe made an announcement at supper: We must lighten our loads to make it easier on the tired animals.

  Ma said to me, “The dresser and rocker can go, but I will never part with your sisters’ things.”

  When we pulled out this morning there was an odd assortment left in camp: a washtub, an oval mirror, two trunks filled with brand-new shoes, a piano, and a birdcage.

  Someone had put several dozen books onto the shelves of a china hutch, neat and tidy as a library. Maybe folks coming behind will get to enjoy them, but who has time to read?

  Tall Joe caught Mrs. Kenker picking through the items and said, “Madam, if your oxen drop dead from all the junk you’re making them pull, why, I ain’t waiting for you or that husband of yours to find a new team.”

  The trail seems to be uphill. Today it was our turn to be in front and I thought, at last, we’ll have no dust. But the wind was at our backs, so we walked in blowing dirt all day long. My skirt pressed behind my legs, often tripping me.

  Jake and I take turns riding in the wagon to help Ma. I don’t like it one bit because it is so hot inside — stuffy and cramped — but we must keep Ben still so his arm will heal. Pa said it was a blessing the bone didn’t poke through his skin, else they might have had to amputate on account of infection.

  Poor Bennie. He wants to play and run alongside the oxen, but Ma is too scared. A boy in one of the other wagons — we don’t know the family — was riding on their sideboard. No one knows what happened, but somehow he fell and was trampled by the mules behind. There was so much dust that it wasn’t until three wagons passed did they find him.

  We all stopped for an hour. They buried him in the middle of the road so wolves won’t dig him up. We can hear the boy’s mother and sisters wailing, even above the noise of our moving wagons.

  Along the Sweetwater

  Today when I saw Pepper and Gideon’s little wagon she waved me over. “Please walk with me, Hattie,” she called.

  I was so happy to be with her again. As Gideon ­drives and she walks alo
ngside, they keep smiling at each other. She is more talkative than ever, which makes me feel good. I think she is glad we are friends.

  The next miles of trail twisted through ravines and sandy slopes. We were nervous to see rattlesnakes everywhere, draped over rocks and coiled in the hot sun. Pa said the West is home to these snakes so we must just learn to be careful, is all.

  Way ahead in the distance we can see dust from the Mormons. They’re at least one day away.

  Mosquitoes are terrible and now there’re also biting flies. My arms are covered with welts that bleed because I can’t help scratching. My sleeves have bloodstains such that I want to rip away the cloth they look so soiled. I wish I had many, many clean dresses instead of this old ragged thing. I yearn to feel pretty again.

  Funny, but now I do wear my bonnet and Pepper wears hers. I tease her about being an old married lady but the truth is our faces hurt from sunburn and the skin keeps peeling. The ridge of my nose is so raw it stings. Every night I rub axle grease on it and my lips, too, not hardly minding the stink of it anymore.

  There was another wedding last evening. The bride is also fourteen and her new husband about thirty years old. He is a carpenter, the one whose wife died a few weeks ago, before we reached Chimney Rock. So now this girl is a mother of three young sons and a newborn daughter. Some older women are helping her care for the baby and one is nursing it every few hours.

  I feel sorry for the girl, all at once having to learn how to be a wife and a mother of four children.

  But Ma says things will probably turn out all right because the bride and groom need each other. He was a widower and she was an orphan traveling with an elderly cousin. “They’ll grow to love one another, Hattie.”

  South Pass

  Tall Joe says we’ve come near 900 miles — that means we’re almost halfway to Oregon! There are cheers and singing and gunshots.

  Pa thought crossing the Continental Divide would be treacherous, but the gap here is twelve miles wide and gentle as a cornfield. The slope is so gradual we hardly knew where we were. To the north are the Wind River Mountains covered with snow. There is a carpet of yellow and blue wildflowers spread between boulders and pine trees, so beautiful. It’s sunny, but the air is thin and cold because of the elevation, about 8,000 feet.

  Women and girls are picking bouquets to hang upside down in our wagons, so they’ll keep their color while drying — this way we’ll have flowers during our winter in Oregon.

  Tall Joe says the nights are so cold at South Pass we must keep going, down the western slope to a campground called Pacific Creek.

  End of June

  Pacific Creek

  We’re camped here for two days to rest and celebrate. It’s a wondrous feeling to think we are finally in the West. Now the rivers and streams flow to the Pacific Ocean instead of eastward toward the Atlantic.

  Everyone who was able dipped a cup in the water and held it up for a cheer. The fiddlers got busy and soon everyone was ready to dance. Everyone except Mama. She said not until her feet are in Oregon City will she celebrate. (Some moments Mama is so grouchy I know for certain I mustn’t upset her with news about our thief.)

  For part of the day we shared a campsite with the Mormons. Pepper, Gideon, Wade, and I walked over to their wagons, curious. There was a fire where a spit held a roasting side of beef.

  We saw three women busy carrying plates back and forth, but didn’t see any children. (I wondered which one was Brigham Young’s wife.) A colored man came over and introduced himself by the odd name of Green Flake, then asked us to please leave on account of his people resting.

  Someone said he once was a slave, but now is Brigham Young’s personal servant.

  Sandy Creek

  Here the trail splits. Tall Joe said there’s a shortcut heading north that’ll save seven days. But it’s 50 miles of desert, no trees, no water or grass for the animals. The days are blistering hot. The only time to travel is after sundown, when it’s cooler.

  Or, he said, the safest is to swing southwest down to Fort Bridger. It’ll take longer, but it skirts the Wyoming desert.

  Our family had a discussion. Pa agreed we’d go with Tall Joe, the safest way, on account of Aunt June might have her baby any day now. Both Ma and Mrs. Anderson begged for the safe route — they’re afraid of being stranded in the middle of nowhere, and of watching the children die from thirst.

  After supper eight families pulled out, heading north across the desert, along the Sublette Cutoff, maybe to reach Oregon a week earlier than the rest of us.

  We no longer see buffalo or their droppings. Tall Joe says the herds have gone north and with them, the Indians.

  I am somewhat pleased we may not run into them again, though it’s true they haven’t bothered us.

  Later

  Jake hit Bennie with a stick because (he says) Bennie threw sand at him. I scolded them both and made them walk the rest of the afternoon with me. Sometimes I wish they were grown-up.

  Early July

  After dark I walked beyond camp, around the circle to the Kenkers’ wagon. A lantern lit the inside, so I stood back in the shadows to see what I could see. The mister was sound asleep, matter of fact he was snoring loud, but Mrs. Kenker was busy with something in her lap.

  I stepped closer.

  She had Bennie’s blue sweater! She was as quick as you please unraveling the sleeve and rolling the yarn into a ball. I wanted to grab her by the throat. When did she steal Bennie’s sweater and why?

  I must tell Ma, even if she won’t believe me. I hurried away to find her.

  At the edge of the camp I saw Pepper’s little wagon. The curtains were closed and lamplight from inside made it glow like a small cozy lantern. (I feel jealous that she has a husband and I have no one yet.) How I wished she and I could watch the stars together and talk, like we did at the first of our journey. I missed her and felt more lonely than ever.

  “Evening, Hattie,” a voice said from the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” I asked.

  “Come sit with us, honey.” There on a blanket was Mr. and Mrs. Bigg, leaning against their wagon wheel. “We was just enjoying the sky. Why’re you out here by yourself, Hattie?”

  I sat with them, pulling my knees up inside my skirt for warmth as there was a cold breeze.

  We were facing west. A smear of pink just above the horizon was all that was left of the sunset. Behind us, inside the circle, was campfires and singing. Folks were warming up for a dance.

  After some moments I spilled out the story about Mrs. Kenker, starting with Ma’s silver spoon.

  They listened.

  Finally Mr. Bigg said, “That poor woman.” With his strong arms he pushed himself a few inches off the ground and scooted closer to his wife. She spread her shawl over their laps.

  “Hattie,” she said, “the Kenkers were our neighbors back in Elmcreek, Missoura. There’s something you need to know about them.”

  Mrs. Bigg then told me that a few days before the families from Elmcreek planned to set out for Oregon, the Kenkers’ house caught fire and burned to the ground. Everything was lost, all their supplies and belongings, everything. But worst of all their two grown sons died. These sons were going to drive their wagon west and help them start a new life.

  “It ain’t right for her to steal, Hattie, but maybe she does because she’s so full of grief and empty inside.”

  For several minutes there was silence. The sound of crickets seemed so loud I was relieved when Mrs. Bigg spoke again. “Hattie dear, we need to think very careful how to handle this. Let’s give it a few days before deciding what to do.”

  When I walked past the campfire back to my wagon I began to feel better for having told my story to a grown-up, so I’ll not upset Ma about it. But now I feel mixed-up about the Kenkers.

  July 7, Wednesday<
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  Fort Bridger

  This is as busy as Fort Laramie, but not as many Indians. Tall Joe pointed out two mountain men who were stretching beaver pelts onto circular frames.

  “That one fella with the knife is Kit Carson, the scout who helped find a trail to Oregon. And that fella, that’s Jim Bridger himself.” Tall Joe lifted his hat in greeting when the two saw him.

  “Bridger started this trading post to help emigrants, that’s why it’s outfitted with a blacksmith, horses, plenty of provisions, you name it. He’s the first white man to see that godforsaken salt lake where Brigham Young is headed, the scoundrel.”

  Tall Joe blew his nose into his hand then wiped his fingers on his pants. He said, “Jim Bridger has got a map of the entire western continent stored in his brain, every river, mountain, and tree stump practically.”

  We camped two days here, outside the log walls. There are tears now among the women because here is where the trail splits for good. About 30 families are heading south to California, while the rest of us are going northwest for Oregon. Many friendships were made over the past three months, close friendships.

  I am relieved that Pepper and I don’t have to say good-bye to each other. Also, Mrs. Bigg, for I’ve grown very fond of her. Aside from Aunt June, she is my favorite lady friend.

  Fort Bridger is also where we part ways with the Mormons. Hooray good riddance, said Tall Joe. I watched the colored fellow named Green Flake climb into his wagon and take the reins. He waved at me and smiled. Then they were gone. Pa says that next year many of the wives and children will follow.