by Diane Noble
Ellie nodded. “He’s a miracle baby. I know God’s got a special purpose for him.” She laughed lightly. “Or he wouldn’t have given him to us at this worst possible time.”
Outside, the storm continued to howl, and the rain sheeted off the canvas. Liza frowned. “I know you’re worried. But don’t fret about the snow in the Sierra Nevadas. I’ve heard most of the companies head through Utah Territory if there’s a question about the snows hitting early. Abe said there’s a well-marked California road called the Old Spanish Trail that heads off south from the Great Salt Lake.”
“Through Mormon country?” Ellie said. Something unsettling about that route nagged her but she didn’t know why, so she dismissed the thought.
Liza laughed. “I’ve heard they’re good-hearted folks who’ve been treated miserably in some of the places they’ve lived. They’ve been persecuted and run clear out of towns in Missouri and Illinois. Homes burnt. Families killed. The Missourians still hold a special hatred for them.”
“I wonder how they treat folks heading through their territory.” Ellie said, settling against her chair and absently rubbing the small of her back.
“I suppose unless you’re from Missouri, you’d be treated fairly,” Liza said wryly. “Besides, Utah is a U.S. territory. We’re not entering a foreign country. Mormons are good, law-abiding citizens who treat their visitors in a law-abiding manner. I’ve heard they’re right hospitable.” She smiled. “Even if this storm delays us and we have to take that route, I’m certain we’ll find them gratified we’ve come their way, even more gratified to sell us their wares … though for a dear price.”
Ellie shivered as a gust of wind hit the canvas sides of the wagon, causing it to quiver and creak. After a time, she pulled out some venison jerky and hardtack and berry preserves, and the little group ate their supper, listening as the winds howled and the unrelenting deluge continued.
Liza spent the night with them, insisting that Ellie sleep on the mattress with the twins while she curled up on a pallet of patchwork quilts.
But Ellie couldn’t sleep. Again, she wondered about the unsettled feeling she had over the thought of heading into Utah Territory. Things had been so hectic as they were packing and readying to leave, she could’ve heard any tidbit of gossip and forgotten it three minutes later.
But what was it she’d heard about the Mormons? Who had she heard it from? A circuit preacher perhaps? A neighbor?
She supposed that at the time she heard it, Utah Territory seemed too far away to give much thought to, its people too foreign to identify with, so she hadn’t dwelt on Utah or its people … until now.
Just as she was falling asleep, it came to her.
The twins were snoring lightly, so she pulled herself up on one elbow, resting her cheek on her palm, facing Liza’s pallet. “Liza,” she whispered, hoping her friend was still awake. “Liza!”
“I’m awake. What’s wrong?” Liza whispered back.
“A circuit preacher came by a few weeks before we left. He’d just ridden from Van Buren.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice to an even softer whisper. “He said there’d been a murder there.”
Liza sat up on her pallet. “That’s just down the road a piece from our home place.”
Ellie nodded. “I can’t remember the details. Only that it happened in Arkansas. Seems a Mormon was shot down in cold blood. The killer’s wife had run off with the Mormon.”
“I’ve heard of that happening before, but it doesn’t have to lead to murder,” Liza said sleepily, lying down again.
“Wait!” Ellie whispered loudly. “There’s more.”
“Hmmm?”
“It seems the Mormon already had several wives.”
“What?” Liza was sitting up again. “You know for certain that’s true?
“The circuit preacher said Saints believe in polygamy. They don’t believe people are married legally unless it’s in their own ceremony.”
“I always thought polygamy was a rumor,” Liza whispered.
“The preacher is a good man. He doesn’t repeat idle gossip. I’m sure he was telling the truth.”
Liza was quiet for a moment. “I wonder why a woman would agree to take a husband who already has a wife. Nothing would ever make me agree to such a thing.”
“Hmmm,” Ellie mused in agreement, lowering her head back onto her pillow. “I wonder why anyone would want to share the man she loves with someone else. I cant imagine it.”
Several minutes ticked by, when she remembered something else. “Liza?”
“More news about the Saints?” Liza’s tone was light but sleepy.
“I remember the reverend saying the man was a special agent of Brigham Young. I’m wondering how the Mormons would take to seeing folks from Arkansas,” Ellie murmured, “if they place blame.”
“How could they blame the entire state?” Liza asked sleepily. Then she chuckled. “Imagine such a thing.”
Ellie didn’t laugh with her but pulled her covers over her shoulders and closed her eyes, listening to the rain striking the canvas. She didn’t fall asleep until it was nearly dawn.
It rained hard for three days without pause. The lightning and thunder and heavy winds moved on after the first night, but the rain continued from a leaden sky, relentless, dumping a damp and muddy misery on the travelers.
The morning of the fourth day, Alexander, worrying about falling behind schedule, ordered the wagoners to line up their wagons and start moving again.
It was a futile attempt. The rain-soaked wagons were heavier than usual, and the women and children had to ride inside because of the rain and mud. The oxen bleated, and the horses reared and snorted in protest as they strained to pull rigs that were sunk hub-deep in mud. Axles broke on four different wagons, causing further delays when the company was forced to stop for repairs. That day they made less than three miles.
The following day they were able to travel only one mile. And still the rain poured.
That afternoon Alexander called the men together in the center of the wagon circle. At the front of the group were Jesse O’Donnell, Josiah Miller, and Pleasant Tackett. Reverend Brown was a ways back, and Abe Barrett was at his side as usual. Just as they started talking, the Mitchell and Prewitt boys joined them, back from riding out to check the herd. They were followed by the foreman, Silas Edwards, on his high-stepping bay. Rain drizzled from their hat brims and their oilskin rain gear. The boys and Edwards quickly dismounted, and their horses whinnied and stamped impatiently.
Alexander wiped his face then explained to the men that with the delay it would be prudent to double back to where the Cherokee Trail joined the Santa Fe, follow it west as far as Bent’s Fort, and then head due north up the eastern face of the Rockies, past Pike’s Peak to Fort Laramie, where they would meet the California-Oregon road.
There were several reasons for this plan, he explained. The cattle would have better grazing land. The Santa Fe Trail was used for trade—it wouldn’t be overgrazed, and the trail wouldn’t be as taxing on the herd. “This way it’s a greater distance in miles,” he concluded. “But overall it will be the fastest. I figure we’d arrive at Laramie right on schedule—by mid-July, maybe earlier.”
“Too dangerous,” Silas Edwards countered, rain streaming from his hat. “It’s not as well traveled. We’re courting disaster to try it. If we’re too late to cross the Sierras …” He didn’t finish, but Alexander knew Edwards—and all the others—were thinking about the Donner company of ‘46, trapped in severe storms for months with no food.
“I see the stretch between Pike’s Peak and Laramie being our only concern,” Abe Barrett said. “That’s Cheyenne and Arapaho country.”
“The Santa Fe is heavily traveled. Also patrolled by government troops. But you’re right, Abe, about the rest. We’d have to post guards of our own after we reach the Cherokee road cutoff.”
The men discussed the idea for a few minutes, and Farrington could see some of the men weren’t in agre
ement with his plan.
Edwards’s face was set in a scowl. “If this is a better route, why didn’t you plan on it from the beginning?” he grumbled. “Think where we’d be by now.”
“The Santa Fe’s a commerce trail. That means it was made for cargo wagons—Conestogas, the heaviest wagons made,” Alexander explained patiently. “And for good reason. A wagon can get pretty beat up on that trail. Most of us have light farm wagons. That’s why it wasn’t my first choice.”
“How much time do you suppose we’ll lose by doubling back?” Abe asked.
“Maybe a week,” the captain said. “More or less.”
“Plus what we’re losing because of the storm,” Abe said.
Reverend Brown spoke up. “We’ll lose more time if we continue on north. Any of you thought what the Smoky Hill River will be like? After a storm this size, we won’t be able to cross for days.”
The men spoke a few minutes more about their options, and Alexander could see some were discontent with his decision. A feeling of disquiet settled over him for the first time since they pulled out of Crooked Creek. This company of friends and family might not be so congenial toward him or each other by the time they struck Laramie.
He and Abe rode back to the wagons in the still-pouring rain. He couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension.
The deluge lasted four more days. Then it took three more days for the ground to harden enough to hold the weight of the teams and rigs. By the time they had doubled back to the Cherokee Trail, they had lost two more crucial weeks of travel time.
As the train rolled out once more, Alexander kept his fears to himself: It would be a hard push to make Laramie by mid-July. It would be harder still to cross the towering Sierra Nevada Mountains before the first snow.
FIFTEEN
During the first week of June, they turned west onto the Santa Fe Trail, discouraged because they still had nearly two thousand miles to go. A spirit of nervous disquiet settled on many; they knew they had fallen behind schedule, and time was a precious commodity they could ill afford to lose.
Ellie heard some in the company blaming Alexander for the blunder of starting north when they should have planned to head west on the Cherokee-Santa Fe from the beginning. Then they complained the outfit should have left earlier in the spring.
Others defended the captain, especially in Ellie’s presence, saying the rain delay would have happened anyway. After all, it didn’t just rain over that one spot where they’d camped in the mud in Kansas Territory. Ellie tried to ignore the scuttlebutt, but her heart ached for Alexander.
As soon as the train pulled onto the Santa Fe Trail, Ellie found herself wide-eyed at her first good look at the huge freight wagons and their drivers—the old mule skinners, or bullwhackers, as they called themselves. Just as she had read, their wagons were piled high with goods for trade in Santa Fe: hardware, cutlery, hats, shirting, linens, hosiery, and anything else the traders thought might bring a profit.
But soon the novelty of seeing the freighters wore off, and the long days melted into each other then repeated their white-hot rhythm as the days melted into weeks. The tall spring grasses turned gold then brown, becoming sparse and dry, until finally disappearing altogether.
The creaking of the wagon wheels became louder as the wood shrank and dried. The air turned hot, seeming to cause the ground to sizzle and making the horizon look liquid. The parching air burnt Ellie’s lungs as the company moved across the flat, dry land that now seemed more desert than prairie. But Alexander kept the train moving, most days insisting on fifteen miles, some twelve, a few close to twenty.
The dust rose under the slow hooves of the cattle and horses. It settled on Ellie’s skin and filled her nose, caught in the back of her throat, and gritted her teeth, making her wonder if she would ever be clean again. The sun seared through her bonnet, and her head throbbed with the nearly unbearable firelike burning of it. Sometimes she wondered how the babe inside her could survive the heat, but somehow he did survive—even thrived, as evident in the changes in her body.
At night, Ellie and the twins scrubbed in the nearby Arkansas River to rid themselves of the dust and grit. But by the next evening, they had to start all over again.
Sarah and Meg seemed content enough with the hard journey. They complained less often and, overall, had quieted somewhat.
They had plenty of water, following the Arkansas River as they did. And buffalo provided fresh meat, though sightings of the herds, once within eyeshot of the road, now grew scarcer. Alexander, Abe, Pleasant Tackett, and some of the cattlehands left the company to find herds north of the Arkansas where the grasses were more abundant and the herds still grazed.
More Indians, mostly Comanche and Kiowa, and once in a while some southern Cheyenne as they neared the Cimarron cutoff, tagged along, begging for food and trinkets. Alexander said it was better to feed them or give them small mirrors, trinkets, or jewelry to avoid conflict later. The Indians in the Southwest were far more aggressive, he added as a warning to all, than those they’d seen so far.
By mid-June, the party arrived at the Cimarron cutoff. They headed the lumbering train northwest onto the mountain road, toward Bent’s Fort, now a few dusty days away, where they would replenish their supplies. Some mule skinners on the Santa Fe had warned them that the fort’s reserves were meager, and though she didn’t voice her worries to either Alexander or Liza, still Ellie worried.
“What’s Bent’s Fort like?” Ellie asked her husband the morning they were due to arrive. He had just finished lifting the box of iron cookware and plates and utensils into the back of the wagon. Though she felt strong enough to perform her usual chores, Alexander now insisted that he do all heavy lifting when possible.
He hoisted Meg up to the wagon bed then reached down and did the same for Sarah, who was holding the ever-present Phoebe. “Just one building,” he said, answering Ellie’s question. “One large, dusty, sun-parched adobe building,” he laughed. “Hardly qualifies as a fort.”
“And this is where we resupply?” Ellie didn’t laugh with him, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
“That’s it.”
“We’ve still got quite a ways to go before we get to Laramie.” She tried not to sound worried.
“The game we find will hold us. Then the Laramie supplies will last us to Bridger. And, of course, until we reach the Mormon settlements north of Utah.”
Ellie had heard the rumors about taking the southern route to California. “Have you decided for sure, Alexander? I mean, to go through Utah Territory?”
“Actually, I was talking about the settlements along the trail—not those in the territory. But I see no reason not to take the Old Spanish Trail to California, if we need to. A lot depends on our timing. We’ll know more once we get to Laramie.”
“I worry about going through Utah,” she said suddenly. “There’s just something that doesn’t set well with me about the idea.”
She was surprised to see the concern in his face. Then he laughed as if to alleviate her fears. “I’ve heard the Saints will be more than happy to turn our desperation into dollars. Especially when they see a wealthy train like this one heading into their territory.”
“Of course it depends on how desperate we are, doesn’t it?” Ellie asked solemnly.
Her husband nodded. “If we do travel through Mormon country, it will be because were desperate. And they’ll have us over a barrel. The cost will be high. There’s no doubt about that.” Then he laughed. “Of course, the Saints aren’t alone when it comes to driving a tough bargain. I think most folks would do the same in their place.”
That afternoon the company halted at Bent’s Fort, though only long enough to purchase a few supplies for a premium price then move on without delay. When they pulled out again, there was more talk about resupplying in Laramie.
That night by the fire, some voiced concerns that the cattle were thinning too fast because of grazing on the dry, sparse, spindly brush of the Santa Fe
instead of the lush, taller grasses of the California-Oregon Trail. Some said they’d lose their shirts if they had to buy grain in Utah. Then the talk turned to the people who called themselves Saints. There was endless speculation about their beliefs and practices. Ellie and Liza exchanged looks as their theology was bantered about. Ellie suspected that some of the bizarre practices talked about were probably fabricated, though she didn’t say so. They seemed too outrageous to be true.
The train snaked onward across the dry-grass plain, and it seemed to Ellie the entire company was ever mindful of the stark, clear sunrises at their backs and the blinding red sunsets heating their faces.
Even the eternal optimist Liza Barrett spoke up one night by the fire about the feeling that they’d covered no distance at all when they measured the span behind. She said that it seemed an eternity to go when they looked ahead.
Yet westward, ever westward, they trudged, finally leaving even the blessed waters of the Arkansas. And the days of white-hot sun beat down harder than before, stretching one after another into searing, still, and cloudless weeks.
Ellie tended to the twins’ blistered lips, sunburned faces, and thin, bite-covered limbs; she did what she could with her own swollen feet and hands.
Wearily, so wearily, with Alexander riding by her side, she cracked the whip over the team again and again as the wagon wheels creaked and the oxen bawled and the mules brayed, heads down, methodically placing one sore hoof before another.
They turned off the Santa Fe, north onto the lonely Cherokee cutoff, the portion of the trail that would lead them along the eastern face of the Rockies. It was spoken of, sometimes in whispers, as the loneliest, bleakest, most danger-filled part of the journey they had yet faced.
By summer solstice they got their first glimpse of the mountains.
Polly O’Donnell was the first to spot Pike’s Peak, and her pronouncement brought the first lighthearted touch to Ellie’s life that she’d known in weeks. “We’re almost halfway!” Polly shouted. “This is the place. Pike’s Peak marks the spot!”
