I didn’t change my mind about Mrs. Schmidt, though. She complained all the time, telling her husband that he was a fool to sell their bakeshop and go west. She said Joey would grow up to be a wild Indian, that is, if he didn’t get himself trampled by a buffalo first. “And what about me?” I overheard her ask. “What will happen to me if you get shot in the head by an Indian or run over by a stupid ox? What will happen to me and Joey if you’re not around to take care of us?” And then I heard her mutter, “I should have married the hardware clerk, but I was a fool for sweet strawberry tarts.”
Mrs. Schmidt complained about the land we passed through, but Joey and I were fascinated by it. We discovered rocks that were smooth and black as night, and broken stones that gleamed as if they contained gold. I asked Pa about them, but he said they were just rocks. We picked up a snakeskin, flowers I’d never seen before, feathers, and eggshells. Ma told me that every Sunday I could choose one item and store it in a small drawer in the medicine chest that she had discovered was empty. Already it contained a speckled shell, brown with tiny dots of black and white. There were also two rocks, the red one so soft I could write with it, and the white one with the outline of a fern. There was a scarlet leaf and a dried flower. Ma called the flower a lady’s slipper, and said she did not know how it could have grown in that dry earth. I found a tiny green bead, like the ones on Buttermilk John’s shirt, and told Ma that an Indian must have left it for me. But Ma said it was more likely that it was lost by one of the travelers. Once, I discovered the arm of a china doll under a bush and added that to the collection, thinking how unhappy the doll’s owner would be when she discovered the arm had broken off. I wished she could know that it was safe in our medicine chest.
There was a little more room in the wagon, now that part of our food supply was gone, and I asked Ma, “Couldn’t we store some of our clothes in the wagon? Do we have to keep on wearing them all?”
Ma glanced at Aunt Catherine and didn’t answer me right away.
“Your ma’s proud,” Aunt Catherine said.
“I want to show your pa I will live up to my promise,” Ma said. Then to show the subject was closed, she added, “Let me see your quilt square, Emmy Blue.”
Only a couple of weeks after we left the Missouri, we began to pass dead animals, oxen and mules that had given out, sometimes a dog that had been run over by a wagon. I knew then that Pa had been right when he’d insisted I leave Skiddles behind. I wouldn’t have wanted my cat to be crushed under an oak wheel or attacked by one of the big dogs the settlers had brought along.
Then I realized that animals weren’t all that perished crossing the plains, because we spotted our first grave, a pile of stones with a crude wooden marker. The grave was new, I could tell, but the words painted on the marker had already begun to fade, and all we could read was “Alb rt K ne.”
“A man,” Pa said, when we stopped the wagon to see the grave. “I wonder what happened to him.”
“Or a boy,” Ma replied.
I thought then of Agnes Ruth, my little sister who had died, and wondered if Ma was remembering her and the other graves we had left behind in Quincy.
“It might have been a woman—Alberta,” Aunt Catherine put in. “Perhaps she had young children. Who would take care of them?”
“Others in the train. There are always mothers to take on the young.” Ma glanced my way as if to reassure me that if something happened to her, I would not be alone.
Ma’s words made me worry that one of them might get hurt or even killed. If something happened to Pa, would Ma and I be able to drive the oxen by ourselves? But then, would Ma and I even continue to Colorado Territory on our own?
What if it was Ma who got hurt or died, what would become of us? I wasn’t the only one who would be lost without her. What would Pa be like without Ma? She had the stouter heart.
Then I thought, what would happen to me if both of them died? Would Uncle Will and Aunt Catherine want me? Ma, Pa, Aunt Catherine, and Uncle Will were the people I loved most in the world. I couldn’t bear it if one of them were killed or even hurt in any way, and if something happened to all of them, I’d have to go back to Quincy and hope Abigail and her mother would take me in.
Suppose I was the one to get hurt, what would they do? They needed me. I ran back and forth between the wagons with messages. I took Pa’s place beside the oxen when he had some chore to do. If something happened to me, would I be buried like Alb rt K ne, left under a pile of rocks, remembered for only a few weeks until my name bleached away in the sun? Would Ma and Pa go on without me?
“Do you think anybody will remember whoever’s buried here?” I asked.
“We will remember,” Aunt Catherine said. She had gathered a bouquet of grasses and wildflowers, and now she put them on the stones covering the grave.
I’ll remember, too, I thought.
The Bonner wagon had pulled out behind us. Mr. Bonner said one of his wheels was not right and he wanted to check it. “Hatchett,” he called. “Give me a hand.”
Pa and Uncle Will looked at each other. Because they were brothers, both of them were named Hatchett. I wondered if each expected the other to help Mr. Bonner, but in the end, both went to him.
Mr. Bonner told his wife, “Well, get down off the seat. If we have to lift the wagon, we don’t want you in it.”
Even from where I stood, I could see Mrs. Bonner’s face turn red, and she jumped off the wagon and came to stand beside us. “The wheel plagues him,” she explained to Ma.
“Made by a scoundrel,” Mr. Bonner added in a loud voice.
Serves him right, I thought.
Mrs. Bonner spotted the grave. “Oh, how awful! To think of dying in this lonely place and buried far from loved ones.”
“We’ll see more graves before our journey’s over,” Aunt Catherine said. “Pray God it won’t be one of us.”
“I couldn’t bear to be left behind like that,” Mrs. Bonner said. Then she glanced at her husband and rubbed her wrist, which looked bruised. I could see her lip was split, too. “But I wonder if there are worse things than dying,” she added quietly. “And it would be peaceful, lying under the sod with only the wind to trouble one. I think it might not be such a bad fate at that.”
“There would be wildflowers, too,” I said. I had my quilt square in my hand, and I held it up to show her a strip with yellow flowers on it.
“Yes, I’d like that, to lie under a carpet of flowers. I believe I like flowers best of all God’s creations,” Mrs. Bonner told us. “Owen said in one of his letters before we were married that he loved roses, but I believe he loves the thorns better than the blossoms.” She put her hand to her mouth and lowered her head, as if she should not have spoken. “I must watch what I say. I am so used to speaking my mind. Owen says a tongue is a bad thing in a woman, and I fear he may be right.” She gave an odd laugh, one that told me she was scared. “Listen to me prattle on. Owen is right to teach me my place.”
“He is a handsome man,” Ma said at last. Ma rarely commented on people’s looks, because she said what was inside a person was more important. So when Ma said that Mr. Bonner was handsome, I knew she couldn’t think of anything else nice to say about him.
“Yes, isn’t he?” Mrs. Bonner replied. “My friends considered me a lucky woman to have made such a good marriage. And to think I met him through the letters. I could scarce believe my good fortune when I first saw him.” She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “I had worried he would be an ugly man.”
“And it was his good fortune to find a beautiful wife,” Aunt Catherine said.
Mrs. Bonner shook her head. “I am plain. Even Owen says so. I fear he was disappointed.”
“Plain? Not at all! Why your face is like a doll’s.”
“Like Waxy’s, before she sat in the sun,” I added. Mrs. Bonner looked confused, until I explained that Waxy was my wax doll, whose face had softened from the sun’s heat.
“Not so fine, but at least I wil
l not melt,” Mrs. Bonner said with a small smile. She looked at the quilt square I was stitching. “I wish I had brought my sewing with me. It would be an excellent thing to sit in the sun with it while we rest.”
“Do you quilt?” Ma asked.
“Oh yes. And if you will excuse my vanity, I was considered quite good at it in Fort Madison. But I am speaking about embroidery. It is my favorite, and I am afraid I am too proud of it. You see, I embroidered the pillow slips and sheets, the towels and tablecloths for my wedding trip, and I decorate my under things. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and showed it to us. The white linen square was embroidered with white flowers, and there was fine lace around the edges.
“Such delicate stitches. Why, there’s not a single mistake,” Ma said admiringly. “I am hoping Emmy Blue will learn to stitch as well.” She nodded her head at my quilt square.
For fear Ma would suggest I learn to embroider, too, I went over to where the men were working on the wheel. A spoke had split, and Pa was telling Mr. Bonner about wrapping it in wet buckskin.
“Never heard of that, but I guess there’s no harm in you doing it,” Mr. Bonner said.
Pa glanced at Uncle Will in a way that told me I knew he was angry. “Me?” he muttered. Mr. Bonner made no move to fix the spoke, so Pa went to our wagon, found a piece of buckskin, and whittled off a strip with his knife. He poured water over it, working the wetness into the buckskin, and when it was pliable, he stretched it, and then wound it around the spoke.
Ma saw that Pa was doing all the work. But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she removed her sunbonnet and examined it. “Worn out already,” she said, running her hand over the fabric. “I was vain and made it from fine muslin. I should have used calico, and a dark one so the dirt wouldn’t show. But it will have to do now.”
“I’ll make you a new one if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Bonner said quickly.
Ma shook her head. “I ought to make my own, to punish myself for my vanity.”
“But I should love to do it for you. You have been such good neighbors to Owen and me. And I would enjoy a change from the embroidery. I even have the fabric for a sunbonnet, a dark blue that would flatter your eyes. Please allow me.”
At home, Ma would never have let anyone do her sewing for her, and I was afraid she might think Mrs. Bonner’s work wasn’t up to her standards. But I could tell that Mrs. Bonner was trying to be nice, because her husband was not. He’d broken our hammer, and now he was letting Pa mend the wheel.
“I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble,” Ma said at last, and I knew Mrs. Bonner had won.
“No trouble at all. I’d welcome the work.”
The wagon wheel was mended and Mr. Bonner yelled to his wife to stop gabbing and get into the wagon. He helped Mrs. Bonner onto the seat, but maybe that was because we were watching him.
“I do not care much for that man,” Ma said when Pa and Uncle Will joined us. “Did he even thank you?”
Pa shrugged. “It’s a rickety wagon, and he’s too lazy to grease the hubs. I’ll wager this won’t be the only time something goes wrong with it.”
“Well, I hope that next time, you’re not there to help him,” Ma said.
“I was just being neighborly.”
“Yes, you were. And we had a chance to visit with Mrs. Bonner. I imagine she needs women to talk to. I suspect he lays the weight of his hand on her, and she’s harmless as a dove. Couldn’t you say something to Mr. Bonner, Thomas?”
“It’s not our business. Besides, he’s not a man that bears talking to,” Pa replied.
I wondered whether Pa would think Mr. Bonner would bear talking to if he hurt Ma—or me.
Chapter Twelve
FIRST IN LINE
Not long after that, we began to come across possessions that travelers had discarded along the trail. Of course, all along we’d seen things that had been thrown out—broken dishes, ripped clothing, and the like. But now we spotted more valuable items. Ma called them “leavings.” One was a large chair made of polished wood with gilt trim on the edges. The chair was upholstered in yellow silk with a pattern of bees on it.
“Stop, Thomas,” Ma called when she saw it. She climbed down from the wagon and made her way to the chair. “It’s been so long since I sat in a real chair that I can’t resist trying it out.” She ran the back of her hand over the arm, and with a contented sigh she settled into it. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Feel the silk, Emmy Blue,” she said. “It’s so fine I have to use the backs of my hands to touch it for fear of snagging it.” Then she laughed. “Listen to me. I suppose my hands aren’t any rougher than the sand and wind that will destroy this upholstery in a day. Why a single raindrop would leave a mark.”
Aunt Catherine walked over to us. “This is finer than anything I had at home. The woman who owned this chair must have cried when she parted with it. Still, I wonder at taking along such a silly piece of furniture in the first place.”
Ma stood up. “You sit, Cath, and you will understand. It must have meant to her what my rocker did to me.” They traded places, and Aunt Catherine took her turn in the chair, resting her arms on the yellow silk.
After she stood up, I slipped into the chair and snuggled into the down of the cushion. I sat there as long as I could, thinking I could sleep in that chair. It certainly was softer than the ground.
But Pa said, “Come along, Emmy Blue.” Ma was already back on the wagon seat, and Pa was flicking his whip at the oxen. I had to hurry to catch up.
“It’s a pretty chair,” I told him, as I walked along beside Pa. “Why would somebody leave it behind?”
“To lighten their load. Oxen are strong, but even they have a limit. We’ll come across more useless belongings before we get to Golden.”
And we did. We passed washstands and bureaus, kitchen chairs and love seats, bedsteads, stoves, and even a sewing machine.
Once, we stopped beside a pile of bedding—blankets and pillow slips, sheets and quilts. The quilts were neatly folded, and on top was a note held down by a rock. Ma picked it up and read, “Help yourself to six good quilts.” She turned to Aunt Catherine. “She must have felt as if she were leaving behind her right arm.”
The two of them went through the coverlets. “Look at the star quilt. The corners are perfect,” Aunt Catherine said.
“I prefer a star to all other patterns,” Ma said. “Maybe that’s why I enjoy sleeping under the starry sky at night. Can you see the stitches, Emmy Blue? They’re as fine as grains of sand. Just imagine the quilter’s heartache at parting with them!”
The two looked at the quilts, then folded them and placed the note and the rock back on top of them. “If we just had a place, I would take the star,” Ma said.
“But you don’t,” Aunt Catherine reminded her. “If you took the quilt, then Thomas would make you throw out your own Friendship Quilt. I don’t have room, either. Surely some woman will have a place in her prairie schooner.”
As we walked back to the wagons, a man stopped to look through the discarded items. He held up a red, white, and blue quilt with stars and stripes and remarked, “This will do for a saddle blanket. I’ll just tear it in half.” He went through the quilts again and took out a second one. “This will go on top of the wagon sheet to keep out the rain.”
Ma looked at Aunt Catherine and shook her head. “God forbid the maker ever learns what happened to her handiwork.”
“No need to worry. That man’s a go-back,” Aunt Catherine said. We watched as he placed the quilts in his wagon and started off to the east.
We’d passed go-backs before, single men and families who had given up finding a fortune and were returning home. Some turned around even before they reached Colorado Territory, but others had been all the way to the mountains. When they hadn’t found gold, they were too discouraged to stay. Many of the travelers had painted “Pike’s Peak or Bust” on their wagon sheets before they left home. The go-backs had crossed out those words and w
ritten “Busted by Golly” underneath.
As we watched the man drive his wagon away, I asked Ma if she wanted to go back home, too. She thought about that for a long time and didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “I like the sky here that is so blue and clear, and the open space. It seems as if you can see a hundred miles.” Then she paused and added, “But I’ll always miss Grandpa Bluestone, Grandma Mouse, and my friends. I wonder if I shall ever have such true friends again.”
“You have Aunt Catherine,” I reminded her.
“I do, and I have you, Emmy Blue. Now why should I want for more?”
Pa and Uncle Will had gone ahead with the wagons, and Ma, Aunt Catherine, and I walked together, the three of us in a row, through the prairie grass. The animals churned up so much dust that we didn’t want to follow behind them on the trail.
“How is your quilting coming, Emmy Blue?” Aunt Catherine asked.
I shrugged, thinking that it wasn’t coming fast enough. I hoped this didn’t turn into a quilt-walk day.
“Show her your square,” Ma suggested.
I took it out of my pocket, pressing it against my hand to get out the wrinkles. Then I held it up. But I sighed as I did so, because I had used a dark strip where I should have used a light one. “I guess I have to take that one out,” I said, before Ma could tell me I was sloppy.
Ma took the square from me and studied it. “Oh, leave it be,” she said to my surprise. “Only God is perfect. You don’t have to be.”
I opened my mouth so wide at her remark that you could have tossed an apple down my throat without touching my tongue.
“Do you know that Bessie Fisk at home purposely made a mistake in each of her quilts?” Aunt Catherine said. “She told me she thought God would be offended if she made a perfect quilt.”
“Well, she didn’t have to trouble herself. She makes enough mistakes for all of us,” Ma said. She and Aunt Catherine began to giggle.
“Meggie, shame on you,” Aunt Catherine said, and laughed again. Then she took my quilt square from Ma and studied it. “One piece put in like that will only add interest to your quilt, Emmy Blue. Why, some might even think you did it on purpose. I would be one of them.”
The Quilt Walk Page 7
