Once decided, the wagon train turned due west. We have been waiting to join the line, almost last, as usual. I foresee trouble already, for it is taking longer for the forward movement to reach us.
August 30, 1845
Once we were underway, it was easy to see why those ahead of us were so slow. Even sagebrush must be cleared if it is high enough, and the otherwise flat terrain can contain hidden surprises: gullies that can’t be seen until we are right on top of them, or rocks that seem passable at a distance but that break wheels upon arrival. Those ahead of us are making a new trail, and it is easy to see where the lead wagons were forced to retreat, where they had to give up on a route, and where they had to circle around or backtrack. We have been spared that, at least, but the jostling and swaying is more than we are accustomed to. I wonder why the other wagons haven’t already given up and sent the message for us to turn around. I’m quite certain I would have.
These men are stubborn and proud, like my husband, and once they decide on a course of action, there is little that can dissuade them. Otherwise the promise of difficulties and hardship would have been enough to keep them home.
The dust is ankle deep, and we have had to cross the Malheur River more than once as it winds through high bluffs and narrow passageways. The road is rough and rocky, and there is little timber except near water.
September 1, 1845
The road is bad. We have endured five days of this jarring motion. We are traveling less than ten miles per day sometimes, and if we weren’t so close to our goal, I’d be worried about the winter snows. The trail continues to be strewn with broken rocks, and we travel up and down hilly ravines. The grass is dry. The oxen are giving out, their hooves bleeding. When we find a stream, there is not enough water for everyone. Some must go on, looking for other sources.
Jonathan returned to the wagon last night. He was covered in dust, his hands and arms were a tangled maze of scratches, and he was dog-tired. This morning, Gus and Bart also returned, so exhausted that they retired to the back of their wagons and fell instantly asleep. I’m amazed they can sleep through the bumping and jostling.
“This was a mistake,” Jonathan told me over our lunch. “Meek is a humbug and a braggart. I don’t believe he knows where he is going.”
“Yet we travel west,” I said.
“Yes, a shortcut, supposedly. But I can’t help but I remember what my father told me: ‘Never take shortcuts.’ I thought at the time he was speaking in metaphor, but now I wonder if he wasn’t being literal.”
“We will reach our destination sooner or later,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.
Jonathan did not seem encouraged. “I also wonder why, if it is so easy, no one else has taken this route before. This is a desert, though it is cold at night. There is very little water. Meek assures us that we will reach the Deschutes River soon, but the maps show differently.”
“Then why do we follow him?” I asked.
“We can’t go it alone,” Jonathan said. “I tried my best to convince Gus and Bart, but the fools are too eager to reach their destination.”
There is no help for it but to forge ahead. I am glad that my husband is back to drive the wagon, for I’d much rather walk beside it. It is beautiful territory, when my vision is not being jostled.
September 2, 1845
Water is starting to become a concern. We had enough to last us until the next waterhole—by way of the old route. Mr. Meek told us that we would reach water on this path even sooner, but there is no sign of it.
There is blood on the trail from the hooves of the oxen; at times, the poor beasts will simply lie down, and no amount of punishment will make them rise. There is more swearing than I have ever heard. Everyone is tired, and it is at this inopportune time that disease has struck our wagon train. We have been lucky until now. It is as if the fates were waiting until we were at our most vulnerable.
Those who are sick are put in the backs of wagons, and their moans are so loud that we can hear them far down the line. The group ahead of us, which consists of five families from Springfield, Missouri, have already lost one little girl. I wish Jonathan would let them get farther ahead of us, for I’d rather face Indians than cholera. I have forbidden the children from ranging ahead of us as is their wont. I have forbidden them to play with children other than those in our three wagons.
I had thought our trip strenuous and dangerous, but except for Sarah, I now believe we have not suffered as much as others—until now. Until we became certain that we knew better than those who came before us and struck out into new lands.
At the end of the day, we found some warm springs, a little above body temperature, but we still would not have had enough water were it not for an evening thunderstorm.
I only hope that God takes mercy on us.
Chapter Seventeen
Columbia River, Oregon Territory, September 1851
Dearest Frank,
I miss you terribly, and I hope that by traveling to Vale and talking to Mr. Catledge, I will clear this matter up.
Unexpectedly, Angus and I have been joined on our journey by three of Mary’s employees. I’ve accepted their help, though I fear for their safety. They, of course, think they are keeping me safe. It is the youngest of them, a serious young man named Terrance Drake, who is in charge of the trio. It was he who found Augustus Catledge, and so I can’t very well refuse to let him come.
You will notice that I mention Angus Porter. Yes, dear husband, I am aware that you have conspired with my father to send me a guardian. We will have a talk about that when I get home. I thought it foolish that the poor man traipse along behind me, so I have taken him under my wing. He seems a very interesting and capable fellow, and I enjoy his company.
I will mail this if I have a chance; otherwise, other letters may join it in the future as I continue to write.
Love,
Virginia
The gold in Virginia’s rucksack was too heavy to carry across the mountains and into the High Desert. She exchanged the raw metal with a man on a side street, who gave her a usurious rate but who was unlikely to tell the authorities about her riches.
Angus stood watch nearby. When she emerged and they were walking away, he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “We’ve got company.”
Virginia had already felt a tingling between her shoulder blades, and she simply nodded. She wasn’t sure what to do about it.
“Keep walking, miss,” Angus said, and dropped away into the shadows. Virginia continued on into the crowd. When he caught up with her again, he had a tear in one of his coat sleeves, but otherwise showed no sign of what he’d been up to. Virginia noticed him rubbing his chin and asked, “Are you all right?”
“One of the bastards caught me with a lucky jab, but no harm,” Angus replied cheerfully. “They weren’t used to their victims fighting back.”
Virginia had enough money to buy them all passage to Vale by way of the road along the Columbia River Gorge, but Drake objected. “Mrs. Hoskins told me to pay for everything,” he said. “After all, you are doing this for her.”
“You may pay for the horses and pack mules and provisions when we get to Vale,” Virginia said. If it becomes necessary, she thought. She still hoped that by the time they got there, Becky would have returned home safely and Gus Catledge would have the answers Virginia sought.
They began the journey in relative luxury. A new freight line had opened in the last few months, though there were few goods or people heading east. All the better: they got a good rate, and the wagon was nearly empty, so they had space to spread out, even Sims, who for once wasn’t forced to ride on top when the weather was bad.
And it was bad weather almost from the start, cold and wet, the kind of climate that Virginia was learning was the other side of the paradise that was fertile Oregon. The clouds glowered all day, whether it rained or not. She began to be glad that she had ended up in California, though the journey there had been a tragedy.
To the south were the majestically severe slopes of Mt. Hood, already covered in snow. To the north was a gentler, rounder-looking mountain.
“St. Helens,” Drake informed her.
The Columbia River cut right through it all. The slope of the road was gentle, though the road itself was winding and they had to take wide detours where the bluffs ran all the way down to the water. At other times, the water flowed just a few hundred feet away, looking gentle and calm. It was the widest river Virginia had seen since leaving the Mississippi River behind.
The sight of snow on the mountains gave Virginia the chills, as it always did. She awoke that first night screaming, certain that a wolf was creeping through the snow toward her. There was a gentle knock on the side of the wagon, and Angus’s concerned voice asked, “Are you all right, Miss Reed?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Angus,” she said shakily. “It was nothing…just a dream. Go back to sleep.”
They made good time on the well-traveled road. In some places, there had even been attempts to lay down timber and gravel to smooth the way.
“Is this part of the Oregon Trail?” Virginia asked. “My own path to the West went a little south of here.”
Drake looked at her, and she could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew about her experience with the Donner Party. “It is part of the route, as I understand it,” he said. “I came by boat.” He turned to his man, Sims, who looked uncomfortable at being put on the spot.
“They’ve civilized it, miss,” Sims said. “Just a few years ago, settlers on this route were still being attacked by Indians.” He looked grim, and Virginia could guess how they had managed to civilize it.
“Civilized or not, Mary…Mrs. Hoskins would have been better served to have traveled this route,” Drake said.
They stopped for several nights along the way, but the journey was still much quicker than it would have been only a few short years before. The teamster was able to change horses at stations along the way, and the travelers were fed hot meals. The biggest delay was getting out of the way of the constant stream of wagons going the other way, even this late in the season. Even though more wagon trains were heading to California now, there were greater numbers of settlers than ever heading for Oregon.
One morning, they awoke to frost on the ground. Not long after, the traffic coming from the east began to dwindle until there were long stretches where they were alone. The season for overlanders was over.
They came to a high plateau with the river far below. Two men on horseback were waiting for them behind a rockfall. There was something odd about them, and at first Virginia couldn’t make it out. It wasn’t until they spurred their horses forward that she saw that they were wearing bandanas over their faces.
Beside her, both Drake and Angus reached for their pistols.
“Hold off,” she said, using her Canowiki commanding voice. It didn’t always work on humans, but sometimes it did. Drake let his hand fall, but Angus kept his inside his coat. If they started firing, it was almost certain that someone would get hurt, and there was a good chance it wouldn’t only be the bandits. Let these bandits take what poor excuse for riches we have, Virginia thought. As long as they reached Vale safely, they could replenish their supplies.
One of the robbers was holding a shotgun, which he pointed at the teamster in the driver’s box. The other man dismounted and threw open the back of the wagon, then stepped back with a rifle pointed at them.
“Step out, gents,” he said. He did a double take, and then added, “And you too, ma’am, if you please. I promise this won’t take long.”
Virginia got out first and stepped to one side. Angus moved next to her, while Sims and Franklin stood on the other of the door.
“We aren’t worth the effort,” Virginia said. “This is but an empty freight coach sent east to bring back goods.” She glanced up at the teamster, looking for confirmation. He looked scared.
Oh, no, she thought as he reached for the shotgun propped next to the reins.
The bandit on the horse fired first. The blast caught the teamster in the lower face, blowing away his jaw. He slumped, letting go of the reins, but by some miracle, the horses didn’t bolt.
Angus drew his pistol so fast that it was a blur and shot the horseman backward off his horse. Instinctively, Virginia pulled her bowie knife and threw it toward the robber on the ground, who was aiming his rifle at Angus.
Time seemed to stop. The rifle fired, and she felt the impact of the bullet slamming into the wood of the coach near her head. Virginia watched the individual revolutions of the knife as it tumbled through the air, and it seemed to her that the blade was going to strike the robber in the left eye. But the man flinched and reared back, and the hilt struck him square in the forehead.
He staggered back, dropping the rifle and drawing his pistol.
Sims charged him, pushing him backward, and they both fell to the ground, the bigger man on top. There was a single shot, and Sims slumped.
“Get him off me,” came a muffled voice. “I can’t breathe.”
Angus hurried over to Sims and put his fingers to his neck. He looked up and shook his head.
The bandit was continuing to complain, but sounded weaker with every second. Finally, Angus and Drake pulled Sims away. Then they took turns punching the robber until he stopped moving.
“Why did Sims do that?” Virginia fumed. “The man was beaten; he was going to run.”
Drake was white-faced. Virginia suspected he had never seen anyone killed before. “Sims never backed down,” he said.
“What I want to know,” Angus growled, “is why that idiot teamster reached for his gun. These men weren’t killers unless forced to be. They look like farmers down on their luck. They would have taken our money and gone on their way.” He climbed up to the driver’s box and tipped the dead man over onto the ground unceremoniously. “Ah ha!” he said. He pulled out an iron box and tried to lift it, then grunted and let it slam back down. “Unless I’m mistaken, this is full of gold.”
Franklin whistled, and they all looked at him. He had a huge grin on his face. “We’re rich, boys…er, and lady. If Porter can’t even lift that box, it must have enough gold to make us all rich.”
No one said anything. They simply stared at him until his grin fell away. “I mean…we could…” His voice trailed off.
“Here’s what I want you to do, Franklin,” Angus said, finally. “Find something you can write on, and make a sign that says, ‘This be the End for all Thieves and Murderers.’”
Franklin’s mouth fell open, but no words emerged.
“Get to it, Franklin,” Drake ordered. He walked to the middle of the road, bent over, and picked something up. Then he walked back to Virginia and handed her bowie knife. She blushed and looked down, embarrassed. Her Canowiki fighting abilities didn’t seem to work as well with humans. The blade had missed, though getting hit with the hilt had distracted the bandit.
She looked up to thank Drake and saw the admiration in his eyes, and she blushed again.
The surviving robber was starting to stir, and they got him to his feet. They tied his hands behind his back and put him on his horse.
“Please,” he said. “I’ve got a family. I wasn’t going to hurt no one. I just needed enough money to make it through the winter and to buy seed for planting time.”
Virginia forced herself to look at him. He was telling the truth. He was skinny and malnourished, his skin blotchy from fear and hunger. He kept swallowing, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
Franklin emerged from inside the coach with a roughly made sign. It was barely readable, but he hadn’t had much to work with, only some charcoal and a page out of the teamster’s journal. He pinned the sign to the robber’s shirt with some sharp twigs.
There was no discussion, no ceremony. The men threw a rope over a low branch and put a noose around the bandit’s neck. He was silent now, his eyes closed, his face and hands drained of blood.
“God damn you,” he said softly.
Angus slapped the rear of the man’s horse, and the murderer slid off the back. There was the merciful sound of his neck snapping, and then he was swinging in the late afternoon wind as snow began to fall.
Chapter Eighteen
Diary of Ellen Meredith
The Oregon Trail, September 3, 1845
In the distance, we see Fremont Peak, a large, round rock at the peak, like a castle. In the morning, the fog is so thick that we find it hard to gather up the cattle. The climb around Fremont Peak was steep, but there was good fodder at the top. We can see pine trees on high.
September 5, 1845
We are lost. None of the men will say these words aloud, but I can see it in their eyes. We have traveled too far from Vale to go back, though there has been talk of it. On one thing, all agree: Stephen Meek is a fraud and a humbug. He says one thing to us in the morning, only to deny that he said it in the evening.
“We will reach the Deschutes River by nightfall,” he says, then later implies that he meant something entirely different. The next day, the whole charade begins again. We travel west, that is all we know for certain.
The wagon train is starting to splinter into factions. Our own party has moved up to the center of the pack as others falter. As bad as we believed our situation to be, it turns out we are in better shape than most: an unforeseen advantage, I suppose, of taking up the rear and not having to blaze the trail as others have done. All those hundreds of miles of eating their dust have brought their reward.
The Darkness You Fear Page 13
