Gabriella

by Earl Murray

  I thought Katie to be quite perceptive. Mrs. Rowe had likely come from an isolated family and as a result, is sadly lacking in the social graces. In addition, her husband won’t allow her to develop any friendships and she finds it necessary to push people away. I’ve decided that if anyone can break through Guynema Rowe’s barrier, it will be Katie McCord.

  Quincannon’s Journal

  31 AUGUST 1846

  I’ve had little time of late to do much of anything but manage this caravan and grab winks of sleep and a few bites to eat. Most of the settlers are good, hardworking people with a common goal and the fortitude to achieve it. But there are a few who want nothing more than to cause a stir, and they have been duly warned.

  At the meeting this evening, I informed the trouble-makers that should any serious problems occur and complaints be lodged, the accused will be brought before a jury of their fellow travelers. After discussion, a vote will be taken and will follow democratic process. Should the vote determine that the accused is making it too difficult for the rest, that member will be given a warning. Should that same member be voted against twice in a row, he will be expelled from the caravan.

  The Reverend Rowe immediately spoke in protest. When he started calling me a blasphemer, I stopped him and said that he was out of order. When he hit me with the Bible, I lodged a complaint against him for interfering with my duties as captain of the train. Twelve men immediately volunteered to form a jury.

  Reverend Rowe got the message. All of his group were there but not a single one voiced an opinion. The jury voted unanimously against him and he was warned that he had but one more chance. I never saw a man bite his lip so hard or stare with such hatred.

  The second item of business was the Digger Indian problem. The majority of the men are in favor of shooting them on sight. If I could determine that the same few were the culprits, I might agree. But we seem to be engaging different bands, and killing some who are just watching us will not solve the problem. I can’t agree with eradicating them all because it “looks” like they might cause trouble.

  Our best solution is to keep a tight watch, as we have been, and travel clear of their lands as soon as possible. I plan to suggest night travel when we reach the Black Rock Desert. This will save energy for everyone, as well as the livestock. I still don’t have a good feeling about our passage across that wasteland. There’s not much forage here for the livestock and I’m certain there will be even less farther ahead.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  4 SEPTEMBER 1846

  True to my prediction, Katie McCord has managed to break through the sullen personality of Guynema Rowe. Katie and Pearl had spent an evening in camp harvesting grass seeds from colonies of prairie sandreed that grew in abundance in the swales and along the ridges. I remembered the species from plants growing along the sandy Santa Fe wagon road.

  The grass was far too coarse and dried out for the livestock, but Mrs. Rowe’s hen appreciated the attention Katie gave her. She ate from the small girl’s hand as if there would be no other meal for the remainder of the journey. Meanwhile, Pearl stayed back at the McCord wagon, struggling to keep Rufus and Jake from helping Katie with the hen.

  Mrs. Rowe came out of the brush carrying a jackrabbit. She seemed to expect to find Katie tending to her hen. The reverend had left to read Bible passages from a nearby hill. Millie told me that he had decided since no one among us was worth saving, he would plead to the Diggers, expecting them to come forth and be saved.

  Katie jumped out of the wagon, expecting to hear Mrs. Rowe’s wrath. I watched with curiosity as Mrs. Rowe offered a leg of the rabbit to Katie, so she might make the terriers happy.

  So for the past few evenings the McCord girls have been collecting grass and shrub seed for Henrietta while Mrs. Rowe takes her long-barreled rifle into the sagebrush after jackrabbits. It’s a fair exchange, and except for the reverend, everyone is content with the arrangement.

  I find it interesting that Mrs. Rowe is suddenly paying much less attention to the reverend. He’s not eager to question her on it, for fear of causing a problem in camp. Should he be called to the nightly meeting for any reason and the vote go against him, he would find himself hunting his own jackrabbits.

  The traveling has been difficult and everyone is suffering. It’s been some time since I had a decent meal and a good long drink of water. There are springs at various intervals but they are often nearly dry and we must ration what we find.

  As the travel becomes more difficult, Mrs. Rowe has taken to walking farther and farther out into the desert. It’s not just in the evenings now, but also during the day. She often returns to the wagons with directions for Owen on how to reach a spring that’s flowing or a large pool of water in one of the streams.

  Never once in all this time has the reverend mounted his horse and ridden out to see where she was, and never, as far as anyone knows, has he asked her if she would care to ride in the wagon with him. He has always tied his horse to the back and planted himself on the seat, paying no attention at all to Mrs. Rowe.

  “Why do you suppose he married her?” I asked Millie.

  “A reverend traveling without a wife is suspect,” she said, “as surely as is a priest traveling with a niece.”

  Last evening in camp, Mrs. Rowe arrived from a long walk with three rabbits and gave two of them to the McCord girls. After skinning the one she had kept, she asked the reverend if he might drive the wagon over to a stand of dead cottonwoods a distance away, so that she might get some wood. He refused. So she refused to go for the wood or to cook the rabbit. Instead, she climbed into the wagon and began wailing at the top of her lungs.

  Knowing everyone’s eyes were upon him, Reverend Rowe could do nothing but sit beside his wagon and pretend to read the Bible. Seeing he had no effect, he stood up and began preaching in a loud voice, quoting Scripture. Still Mrs. Rowe continued to howl. Finally, she tired herself out and fell asleep.

  Equally tired, the reverend made himself a bed under the wagon and poured kerosene on the ground all around himself in hopes of avoiding snakes and scorpions.

  The following morning, the reverend still refused to take the wagon over to the trees for wood. This time Mrs. Rowe made no sounds of any kind, but sat on the ground and refused to move. Owen did what he could to persuade her to come along. Even the McCord girls and their terriers had no effect. She refused to talk to anyone but sat by the wagon with her rifle and wouldn’t budge.

  The caravan left with the reverend driving his wagon. We all watched Mrs. Rowe and saw her take off across the hills to the north. Millie said that she would show up later as she always did, while Annie maintained she had gone into the hills to die. I knew Mrs. Rowe better than that and worried that she might be contemplating someone else’s death.

  Owen had a meeting and it was decided that the Rowes had to solve their own problems. The McCord girls begged their father to go after her, but he said they had enough problems of their own. He seemed as convinced as I was that Guynema Rowe needed no one’s help. Besides, she had left her pet hen in the wagon, and had anyone thought about it, they would have known she would never desert that precious chicken.

  That evening she arrived in camp, having traveled parallel to our course all day. Many offered her food and drink, but she refused them all. Instead, she strode up to the reverend and asked him where he had put his Bible. Alarmed, he searched everywhere in the wagon. She told him what a fool he was and said she had taken it and had left it back at the base of the biggest cottonwood in the grove of trees at the last camp.

  “You should have taken me to those trees,” she said.

  If we had not been standing there, I am certain he would have struck her. Instead, he saddled his horse and rode off in the sunset to get his Bible. Mrs. Rowe waited for him to get out of sight, then, after leading their team of oxen and putting them into their traces herself, she drove the wagon out from the caravan.

  I went with Owen and a number of others t
o try to talk her into turning around.

  “Leave me be,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  True to her word, she drove the wagon a distance off the trail and unhitched the oxen. From where I stood with Owen, I couldn’t tell for certain what she was doing inside the wagon. She had taken Henrietta out and had tied the hen by the foot to a sagebrush plant. I realized shortly that after going back inside, she had doused everything with kerosene.

  The wagon went up in flames and everyone gasped. The only thing Mrs. Rowe saved besides her hen was her rifle. She left with it in the crook of her arm, holding Henrietta with her free hand against her bosom, and was soon lost in the darkness.

  Reverend Rowe arrived at a gallop soon after and asked what had happened to his wagon. Owen told him that after executing her last act of defiance, his wife had left for parts unknown with the flintlock cradled in her arm.

  Reverend Rowe wisely chose to remain in camp.

  This morning the reverend is gone and no one knows which way he went or whether we’ll ever see him again. But Mrs. Rowe did arrive back in camp, waving to us from a distance and laughing, carrying three jackrabbits by the hind legs.

  Quincannon’s Journal

  4 SEPTEMBER 1846

  I miss Lamar not just as a friend but also as a partner in travel. These settlers are a rugged bunch but they haven’t yet learned the fine points of traveling the wilderness. There should be less card playing and more traveling.

  I can understand that the children are pressed and become exhausted after a hard day’s march, but they’re much more resilient than their parents think and can handle the rough spots as well or better than anyone.

  Sean Malone has been able to fill in almost as well as Lamar, except that he cannot scout. He would make a good one had he any previous experience out here. As it is, I have to go ahead and leave him to manage any trouble that comes up until I return.

  He can see trouble coming and knows how to check it. A couple of settlers were arguing over stock, which occurs often, and he told them if they couldn’t handle their trouble peacefully, without fighting, he would bring it up at the nightly meeting. No one wants to come before a jury, and so the men settled it.

  Surprisingly, one of the men admitted to wanting the other’s horse and to trying to trim the hair around the horse’s brand. This could have been construed as thievery, but it’s hard to hang a man from a sagebrush plant. Instead, the abused party insisted on administering a punishment of ten lashes. The guilty party readily agreed and exposed his back over a wagon wheel. The sound of the lash against bare skin terrified the women, and the man bled a good deal, but he’ll live and he won’t be sent off on his own. I also doubt he will covet anyone else’s horses for a good long while.

  The tension within the group would be much worse if it weren’t for the McCord girls. They are a kick. Pearl and Katie argue as much as any two kids, but they seem to respect one another and other people as well. The trip is certainly boring for the most part; riding in a wagon, or walking ten to twelve miles a day, is no one’s idea of a good time. They rely on their terriers to keep things jumping, and the two dogs never let them down.

  I think Rufus has taken a liking to me. Pearl keeps his white coat as clean as she can, but it’s a chore. He greets me by standing up on his hind legs and putting his forepaws out in a digging motion, his way of saying, “Hello! I would sure appreciate it if you petted me a lot.”

  Jake is equally exuberant and carries a favorite small stick around to show me, prancing around while his little tail whips back and forth furiously. You would think that both dogs were part retriever, as they love to fetch a stick and then get into a tug-of-war with it. Their growls and snarls aren’t as bad as they sound and the winner gets to bring the stick to me for another round.

  Silas McCord has started calling me “Uncle Owen.” He’s a good barber and a fair hand with a rifle. He helped me drop a dozen antelope the other day, he and Sean Malone and a small man named Riordan. We hid in the sage and got them to come to a white flag. Silas dropped two himself, one at a dead run.

  He cuts my hair when I request it. “You keep the girls and the dogs happy,” he told me. “That’s worth a free barbering now and again.” He trimmed Ella’s as well. At first she was reluctant, but after she saw how mine turned out, she relented. He didn’t take much off, but it pleased her and gave her a fresh feeling.

  She’s been using the roots from soapweed to cleanse her hair. Some people call the plant Spanish bayonet, and there’s no shortage out here. But there are no spring beauties or bitterroots. And breadroots and yampa that she collected in the mountains have already dried up out here. A shame she lost everything.

  She learned a lot of things from Willow Bird and talks of her often, a little too often as far as I’m concerned. I realize that she’s the mother of my son, and that she’s done a great job raising him, but I can’t forget how I was forced to leave, and I find it frustrating that Ella can’t understand that.

  She told me that Willow Bird kicked me out because she feared for my life. She says that Willow Bird believes that all her husbands will die young. Maybe she’s right; they all have so far. I argue that she might have told me her feelings at the time. Instead, I believed she cared more for Kills It. Now I’ll never really know the truth.

  The journey to Oregon is foremost on my mind. Finding Ella’s mother there could be difficult. The country is huge, and there are a great many Indians in any number of places who need tending. Every form of disease has struck them and nurses from Fort Vancouver regularly travel hundreds of miles to care for the sick.

  There are a lot of things to think about in getting Ella to her mother. The desert is the first problem, and it’s now right in front of us.

  THE BLACK ROCK DESERT

  Gabriella’s Journal

  10 SEPTEMBER 1846

  It is a strange place, this desert, with open holes of salt and mirages that make the open vastness appear to be one large ocean. The sage has given way to more greasewood and other forms of rank brush. It is a struggle to ward off despondency as we work desperately to conquer this most difficult of passages. There is little to break the monotony of sand and heat, and as we are crossing during a particularly bad time of year, we can only expect the worst.

  I have kept Annie Malone’s baby for two days while she suffers terribly from drinking alkali water. I cannot nurse the child and am glad that she takes water mixed with mild herbs and roots. There’s no one else to care for little Mary, as Millie drank of the same pothole, along with some of the other emigrants. We’ve been stopped four days to allow for their recovery.

  Owen was scouting ahead and said that he never dreamed anyone would partake of that foul bog. He’s been thirsty many times before and can stand it far better than most of us.

  Guynema Rowe carried bags of fresh water from a spring she had discovered nearly five miles away. She said she traveled faster afoot than on horseback, as the stock were all suffering from lack of food and water. Each day we remain in one place means more concern over reaching the mountains.

  Mrs. Rowe is to be commended for her tenacity. Owen helped her carry the water, as did Sean Malone and a number of emigrant men, those who hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to drink the bad water. None of the horses or oxen would touch it, though their tongues were hanging out.

  We’ve noticed that the caravans ahead of us aren’t moving as rapidly as we are. Likely our four-day stop will allow them to gather distance again. Owen had considered riding ahead to meet with them but realized it wouldn’t do us any good. They are likely having as difficult a time as we are and won’t have any food or water to spare.

  A young settler traveling alone in a mule-driven cart passed us early this morning. The cart, similar to the ones we used along the Santa Fe Trail, was filled with goods of all kinds. He offered a number of dresses to any woman who would take them, plus a blanket and a baby’s wrappings. He had gone off the trail to find a s
uitable spot to bury his family and had conceded there was no place without sand and alkali.

  Owen offered to let him travel with us, but he wanted to reach his own group. He asked Guynema Rowe if she wished to travel with him, as he knew her to have been with some of the people in his group back at Fort Laramie. She thanked him but declined. He clucked his mules into a lope and departed, wishing us good luck.

  Mrs. Rowe and the reverend must share an interesting past. Though she is to be given credit for helping to find water, she has of late become sullen and distant. She allows the girls and their terriers to visit her, but no one else. Pearl told Millie that Mrs. Rowe has decided that the only pure creatures under heaven are children and animals. Everyone else, including herself, is so badly tainted by sin as to have no chance for redemption.

  “She told Katie and me that the day of reckoning was at hand and that few would survive the Second Coming,” Pearl explained. “She was crying.”

  Yesterday, before we got started again, I attempted to talk with Mrs. Rowe. She lifted the rifle at my approach, but left it pointed towards the ground.

  “Stay back, lest you become as tainted as me,” she warned.

  “You are a good woman,” I assured her. “Everyone thinks so.”

  “No, I’m good for nothing, or the Good Lord wouldn’t have put me on this desert to suffer as a banished woman. He wouldn’t have allowed the devil to talk me into burning our wagon and chasing my man away.”

  “The reverend left of his own accord,” I said.

  “He would be here now if I hadn’t caused him so much grief. Likely he’s dead and his bones bleached white somewhere along the trail.”

  “I’ll bet he’s back at Fort Hall,” I suggested. “He had a good horse and plenty of food and water.”

  “There’s nothing you can say that will make it right,” she insisted. “I’m damned to eternal fire.”