To Look for My Children

By June Harris

 

The Lawler family is moving west, heading for Oregon along the Oregon Trail. Their wagon train got a late start, and because of that, they reach Ft. Laramie, Wyoming, much later than they should. When the train members come to understand their tardiness, they set out cross-country to pick up the Bozeman Trail, with the notion of hea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Summit House
• Release date: Jun 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646067350

June Harris

June Harris received her first encouragement in writing when she won second place in a county essay contest as a seventh grader in her native Mississippi. She continued writing through high school in Arizona, and received another writing award in college. After graduating from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Arizona, she began a life-long career in education, but she was hooked on writing and kept writing in her spare time. She received a master's degree in English from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, and a Ph. D. in reading from the University of Arizona. Her first book, a Gothic romance, was published in 1982. She has written predominantly historical fiction to this point, but she is in the process of writing a contemporary thriller. Ms. Harris currently resides in Arizona. She is the mother of five children and the grandmother of nine. She has taken up writing full time in her retirement.

Book preview

cover.jpg

TO LOOK FOR

MY

CHILDREN

June Harris

Copyright © June Harris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-64606-736-7 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-64606-737-4 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-64606-735-0 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

The characters in this book are entirely ficticious. The events involving the Indians and Ft. Phil Kearney are, however, based on fact. Readers wishing to read more about the events that took place there should read FT. Phil Kearney: An American Saga by Dee Brown, an account of the Fetterman Massacre based in history.

Book Ordering Information

Phone Number: 347-901-4929 or 347-901-4920

Email: [e-mail]

Global Summit House

www.globalsummithouse.com

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my children, Pat,

Catie, Isa, and Jo, who made the book possible,

and to Randi, who completed the circle.

Introduction

In the entire history of the United States government’s dealings with the Native American tribes, not a single treaty negotiated with those tribes was ever kept. Not a single agreement was held to by the US government; not a single negotiation was honored.

Especially egregious was the treatment of the Nez Perce tribe in northwestern Oregon. The tribe, under the leadership of Joseph (the elder) who had converted to Christianity, had supported peace with the government. Joseph the Elder had helped set up a Nez Perce reservation. However, after a gold rush in Nez Perce territory in 1863, only eight years after the treaty was signed, the federal government took back approximately six million acres of the territory originally allotted.

In 1871, after the death of Joseph the elder, Joseph the younger, known historically as Chief Joseph, succeeded his father in the position of leader of the Nez Perce. He resisted federal attempts to force his band onto a small reservation, and tried to stay on the land formerly promised by the government. But then the government reversed itself and sent in General Oliver Howard with cavalry to force Joseph’s people off their tribal lands. When Joseph’s people had a conflict with white settlers, Joseph began to fight for his lands and his people.

Joseph came to be called the Red Napoleon for the brilliance of his tactical skills in fighting the U.S. Cavalry. His band of 700, of whom about 200 were warriors, engaged 2,000 U.S. soldiers and held out for such a long time that even General William T. Sherman expressed his admiration for their skill.

Eventually, however, Joseph and his people were overcome by the sheer numbers and superior supplies of his enemy. Joseph surrendered, giving a speech that has been widely reprinted, a speech which has given him a name among American leaders, and which has cemented his position in American history. In the speech, he asked to have time to search for his scattered people: I want to have a time to look for my children…

But Joseph could not know, as his persecutors could not know, that they are all our children, that our children are all scattered, and they still need to be gathered in….

Wyoming Territory,

1866

Chapter 1

Theresa Lawler struggled back to consciousness, squinting up at the canvas over her head, trying to focus her mind and quell the rising nausea at the same time. She took a few seconds to remember where she was; then she reached to touch the quilt-covered form beside her. It was immobile and cold. Caleb was dead.

She clenched her teeth, coping with the sickness, trying to think. Caleb was dead. Think, she told herself, have to think. Have to think about the children. She turned her head and she could see them through the flap of the tent, the four of them squatted around the campfire having breakfast. Andy pulled the coffeepot off the coals--she could smell the coffee, and the scent made her stomach turn over again.

She reached for the bottle of whiskey, felt it, pulled it to her. The thought of drinking the wretched stuff sickened her, but she forced herself to take a swallow; then she lay back, feeling her body break out in a cold sweat, and tried to keep the liquor down. She didn’t know whether the whiskey would help, but she had nothing else to use for medicine, and it couldn’t hurt, she thought.

A gut-wrenching spasm shook her body, then passed. Think. I’ve got to think. Now while I still can. While I’m awake. Before I--before I-- She touched her husband’s body again. I’m dying, she thought. I’m going to die. The realization seemed suddenly to clear her mind, as though fighting the thought of it had blurred her vision, and now, looking at it, she could see clearly. I’m going to die and I have to think about it. I have to think about the children. She looked back out at them, watched them moving around. They seemed all right. If they were going to get sick, they hadn’t shown any signs of it yet.

They have to get moving, she thought. If they have any chance of catching up with the others, they have to hurry. And they have to catch the others. Four children alone in Indian Territory don’t stand a chance.

She raised herself to one elbow and waited a moment until the dizziness caused by the movement had faded.

Andy! Her mouth was dry, and the voice that came out was raspy, little louder than a whisper. She forced down another mouthful of the whiskey and tried again.

Andy!

He turned his head sharply toward the tent and jumped up, dusting off his pants as he hurried toward her.

Stop! she gasped when he was about twenty feet away. Don’t come any closer.

The boy stopped, squinting at her, shading his eyes from the morning sun. She looks awful, he thought. His mother was always so clean, so neat. Now her hair, usually braided and wrapped around her head, hung in limp, sand-colored hanks around her face. Her eyes seemed purple hollows, and her mouth was shriveled and cracked. Her skin was pasty, and she shook with every breath. Her teeth chattered in the cool early air.

He swallowed and squatted down to talk to her. Do you--do you want some breakfast, Mama? he asked. I made some coffee and we got bacon fried and--

No. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow, willing away the wave of nausea. No. Nothing. Son, listen to me. I don’t have--much time.

He watched her carefully, licking his lips, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was so scared he didn’t know why he didn’t die. He could feel the sweat under his arms, cold and wet, and he rubbed his palms against his knees. He was having trouble breathing, as if he had his head under a blanket. He could hardly hear his mother over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Your father is dead. He started to shake, but he said nothing.

A fly buzzed against the canvas, spiraled past this mother’s eyes, settled on her hand. She brushed it away absently.

I’ve got--maybe…a few more hours. Listen. You…have to…take care of the girls. Catch up…with the wagons.

She closed her eyes, trying to breathe. Are you…all right?

He nodded, jerking his head up and down. Yeah, but, Maw, I can’t follow the wagons. The axle’s broke, remember?

She remembered. Two days ago. It seemed like two years.

We just got them two mules and Papa’s horse. I can’t catch up with just them mules and taking the girls. His voice was high pitched and shaky, and she knew how scared he was. He was fighting tears, working not to cry. Fourteen was too old to cry, he believed. He’s just a boy, she thought. My poor boy.

But aloud, she tried to sound stern, to keep pity out of her voice. You have to…try, she said. I thought…what to do. You remember…when we were at Fort Laramie…and we saw the Indians…with those things…you know…the poles…behind their horses?

He nodded. She struggled for breath. You know…how they had those skins…on poles…and they pulled…things. She paused. You make some. Pack…all you can carry. Put Jerusha…on one. You and the girls…can ride. Or walk.

She lay back, trying to breathe.

He was silent for a moment, trying to think about what she’d said. He leaned toward her, his face stiff, his jaw muscles working. What about you, Mama? You’ll get better pretty soon. Won’t you, Maw? Maw? Can’t we wait till you get some better?

She opened her eyes and looked at him, but his features seemed blurry, and she squinted, her head lolling from side to side as she tried to make him out.

No, she rasped. No better, Andy. She coughed, then propped herself up on her elbow again and took another swallow from the bottle. You have to…take care of…girls. Take Papa’s rifle…ammunition…food to cook. Girls can coo… She sagged back, her eyes closed, and the boy thought for a moment that she had lost consciousness, but then she looked up at him. She tried to force a smile, but the most she could manage was a twitching of her cheek.

You can…make it, Andy…not far…catch the others…

What if they won’t take us, Maw? He felt frantic as he watched her slip away from him, and he wanted to do something, anything, to hang on to her. What if they think we got the cholera, too? Maw! What if--

Then just…follow along. You have to…take care of…the girls…

There was silence. From somewhere he heard a birdcall, and behind him was the faint noise of the fire crackling. He could hear his mother’s labored breathing.

Maw?

She opened her eyes, but she didn’t move.

Shouldn’t I bury Papa? I mean, we can’t just leave him out here.

No…mustn’t come…so close…mustn’t catch…

Her last words ran off into nothing, and she was unconscious.

He waited, then said, Maw? Maw? But there was no answer.

He glanced around him, uncertain what to do now. He stood up, looking at the tent, then slowly turned away from it. He looked over at his sisters, hunched beside the campfire, watching him. He started to shake all over, then he clamped his jaws and pulled his arms tight against his body, forcing the spasms to stop.

He walked over to the fire, knelt beside it, and poked it with a stick.

The girls, unnaturally silent, watched him as he dragged the coffeepot toward him and refilled his cup. He tried to sip it, burned his mouth, blew on it for a bit, then tried again.

Finally, eleven-year-old Anne said, How’s Papa?

He didn’t say anything. He just shook his head.

He’s dead, ain’t he?

The boy nodded, his head going up and down in stiff little pumps.

Our papa’s dead? Maggie, the nine-year-old, spoke almost in a whisper. He’s dead? Her mouth quivered and she began to cry silently.

Is Mama all right? Anne asked, scrubbing at her eyes with her fists, leaving dirty streaks across her face. Has she got the cholera, too?

She’s real sick, Andy said. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

What’s gonna happen to us? Maggie asked. Are we gonna die, too?

Andy looked at the girls, sipped at the coffee, and tried to think. What should he tell them? What to say? Finally, he said, I don’t know. I don’t know about Mama, but it looks like if we’d been gonna get it, we’d have got it by now. Anyway, Mama told me what to do, and we gotta get started while we wait and see if she gets better. She said we gotta get started and try to catch up with the others.

He stared at the fire, trying to sound as if he knew what to do, trying to sound normal. He poked at the coals. Normal, he thought. Huh. Tennessee was normal. Nothin’s normal here. Nothin’ ain’t never gonna be normal again.

A hawk wheeled high overhead, and he looked up at it, watching it make great circles, looking for something, searching the ground beneath. Sure had enough sky to work in, he thought. Never saw so much sky. Seemed like there was more sky here in Wyoming than in other places. Not much to block it out, I guess, he thought to himself. Wish I was that hawk. Nothing to worry about but me. Just fly away and leave all this.

He looked back down, surveying the little group. The baby Jerusha dropped her biscuit in the dirt, then picked it up and stuffed the gritty morsel back in her mouth.

She’s got dirt all over that biscuit, Anne. Clean it off for her, huh?

Anne reached for the biscuit and brushed the dirt off it. Don’t eat that dirt, Jer. She turned to Andy. Are we gonna bury Papa, Andy?

He shook his head. Mama says not to. She says not to get close because we might get the cholera. She says we got to get started getting ready to go.

Get started with what? Our wagon’s broke down. That Ben Findlay took all our mules ‘cept two, and Papa’s horse, and there’s five of us, and we can’t go nowhere! Her voice had risen to the edge of hysteria. Andy looked at her, tempted to scream at her, but he made himself sound calm.

"Now, listen, Anne. Mama told me what to do. She told me." He repeated it, hoping that citing Mama as adult authority would give her some confidence in him.

Remember them Indians we saw at Fort Laramie? Them ones that had the things they pulled on the backs of their horses to carry stuff?

She nodded, but she looked uncertain.

You know, Bender called them travises or something. Anyway, they had them two poles with that hide slung between ‘em and they put all their stuff on them and the horses pulled it. You remember.

Yeah, she finally nodded, recalling. They carried old people on the back of them and everything.

Yeah, well, Mama said to make them. We can use the canvas off the wagon, and there’s them little trees down by the creek I can cut for poles to pull ‘em with.

Anne looked skeptical. You think you can make them mules pull anything like that?

I don’t know why not. They pulled the wagon. They’re used to pulling stuff. Anyway, Mama said put food and clothes and all that on them and that’s how we travel. One of them mules is saddle broke. Good thing Findlay left that one. He shook his head. Bet if he’d known old Barney was saddle broke, he’da took him, for certain. Anyway, you and Maggie can ride him and Papa’s horse, and Jerusha and ride on one of them travises, and I can lead.

What about Mama? Maggie had stopped crying, but her face showed the trails of tears down her cheeks. She was holding Jerusha on one hip, leaning against the weight of the chunky fifteen-month-old. How will Mama ride?

Andy blinked. He had taken his mother at her word, and had begun making his plans without counting on her, but he had forgotten that the girls didn’t know the truth. Don’t worry about it, he said. If she’s still feeling sick, we can pull her, too. And if she’s getting better, she can ride on the horse, and you two can take turns riding the mule and walking.

Yeah, but we only got one saddle, Anne said.

You can ride bareback. Won’t hurt you.

Is Mama getting any better? Maggie glanced doubtfully toward the tent.

Andy sighed. Lying didn’t come easy for him, and anyway, he thought, no point in getting their hopes up.

I doubt it, he said. She may get better after a while. We’ll wait and see.

He put the girls to work packing up food and sorting out what they would need for the trip, and threw himself, almost frantically, into preparing the travois. He dragged his father’s axe out of the wagon and went down to the edge of the little creek to cut some poles. He found chokecherry bushes that were big enough and long enough to suit his purposes, and he cut them down and cut off the branches and pulled them back to camp.

When he arrived, the girls were squabbling over what to take and what to leave, and he stepped in and made the final decisions, endearing himself to neither of them.

Maggie, screaming with rage, insisted on taking her doll along, and Andy vetoed that choice.

I can too! the little girl choked, her face puffed with anger. Anne’s gonna take them candlesticks! If she can take them, I can take my doll!

Anne, he yelled, you can’t take them candlesticks! We don’t need no silver candlesticks on the trail.

Anne popped her head out from under the cover of the lopsided wagon where she was working. I am so taking them, Andy Lawler, she said. You’re not the boss of me. I’m not going off and leaving Gramma’s candlesticks out here in the middle of nowhere.

Don’t be stupid, Anne. He wondered how they could be fighting over candlesticks at a time like this. We can only take what we have to have to live. No candlesticks.

Then I’ll just stay here. I won’t go.

Yeah, he said, stay here. Let the Indians get you. See if I care.

Her fury melted into fear at the mention of the Indians, and she began to plead with him. The candlesticks had been in Theresa’s family since her great-grandmother brought them from England, and they had been passed from mother to oldest daughter on her wedding day. Anne had been promised the candlesticks. Theresa had fought with Caleb to bring them, and to lose them now was more than Anne could deal with, even in the face of everything else.

"Oh, please, Andy, please don’t make me leave them. Please. I’ll carry them myself. I will carry them, we brought them all this way, and they’re mine, and I’ll take care of them, please, Andy--"

A loud moan came from the tent, and Andy turned from his sisters and ran toward his mother. He knelt in the dirt and tried to peer through the flap, but he couldn’t see her face.

Maw? There was no answer, only the sound of her rasping breath. He waited a moment, then called again. No answer. He rose and walked back toward the girls.

Twice more she cried out, but by early afternoon, when the packs were almost completed, he went back to the tent to see her, and he could no longer hear the tortured breathing. The tent was silent except for the buzz of the flies that had come alive in the afternoon heat.

Andy moved slowly up to the tent, close enough to lift the flap that moved in the breeze. The stench from inside almost made him retch, and he turned away. Then he covered his nose with his hand and looked inside. He could only see the side of his mother’s face. Flies crawled back and forth across her cheek, into her ear, over the hand that lay near the whiskey bottle.

He dropped the flap and stood up, breathing deeply. He dusted his pants and walked back toward the girls.

Anne looked up from the bundle she was wrapping. Is Mama all right? Is she sleeping?

He shook his head and turned away from her to hide his tears.

Maggie plucked at his sleeve, her brown eyes huge, a white line around her mouth. She’s not dead, is she Andy? Our mama ain’t dead?

He nodded and jerked his arm away from her. He turned to the wagon and leaned against a wheel, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

Anne’s small face crumbled, and she sat down heavily in the dirt, sobbing. Maggie was shaking, tears running down her face. She was wringing her hands into the front of her skirt, twisting the calico with her small fists. Jerusha toddled from one to the other of them, not understanding, but when they ignored her, she, too, began to cry.

I wanna…go…home, Maggie sobbed. I wanna…go home. I don’t like it out here. I wanna…go home.

Andy lifted his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Yeah, he said finally, yeah, I do, too. But we’ll have to-- his voice cracked and he stopped and started over. We’ll have to do what Mama said, that’s all. He hoped he sounded better than he felt. He felt as if he wanted to die. Just die and be done with it. But the girls were looking at him, waiting for him to do something, and he guessed he had to. He turned from the wagon, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of his new responsibilities was more than he could bear.

We’ll do what Mama said, he repeated, moving in a kind of daze back toward the packs. Come on. We gotta do what she said.

The girls stood still, waiting for him to tell them what to do.

Come on, he said. We’ve got this nearly finished. We’ll just find the wagons, like she said. They can’t be too far. We’ll just go after them.

Why can’t we wait: Maggie wiped her nose with the back of her hand and wiped her hand on her skirt. They said they’d send some soldiers back from the fort to find us. Why don’t we just wait for them?

Andy turned toward her, blinking, having trouble focusing on what she was saying.

Because, he said finally, the quicker we get started moving to where they are, the quicker they’ll find us, that’s why. Besides, if we just set here, more’n likely the Indians’ll get us first. We gotta get moving. That’s what Mama said.

Maybe some other wagons will come by and we can go with them.

He sighed, exasperated. Mag, ain’t no wagons coming through here. We ain’t even s’posed to be here. This is Indian country. We ain’t on the trail.

Anne glanced over her shoulder as if she half expected to see Indians behind her. Will they be mad if they find out we’re on their land?

Well, I don’t expect they’d be too happy about it. There’s this treaty or something about how white men are s’posed to stay off the Indian land. They might say we broke the treaty or something.

What’ll they do if they find us?

Andy looked off into the distance. I don’t know. I’ll just tell ‘em we’re lost and we didn’t mean to be on their land. We’ll get out as soon as we can. Maybe they’ll listen.

Huh, Anne sneered, but she rubbed her fists across her eyes, trying to fight off fresh tears. T-t-tell ‘em we’re lost. Huh. You don’t speak no Indian, Andy Lawler. How you gonna tell Indians anything? They’ll just kill us and scalp us, that’s all.

Damn it, Anne! He was afraid she might be right, but the fear transmuted to anger, and he snarled at her. They just might do that if we don’t look like we’re making some tracks to get outa here. Now hurry and get that stuff loaded.

Can’t we stay here one more night? Maggie was squatted on the ground, and she looked up at him, her eyes begging. Maybe somebody will come.

Maggie, this ain’t Tennessee. Nobody is coming here. Now come on. I gotta have you hold old Barney while I see how he’s gonna take to pulling this thing.

He understood how she felt. Things were bad enough here, but at least they knew this place. To go out where they didn’t know anything, alone-- He felt half that way himself, but another part of him had a need to get away, to get going, to get out of here. He had to get away from those things in the tent that had been his parents. The girls had some hope, however irrational, that if they stayed here, things would be as they had been. They’d wake up and find it was all right. He would have liked to believe that, would have liked to think that in a moment their parents would come out of that tent and all would be good again. But he had seen the reality as they had not, and he knew the truth. Nothing, nobody, was ever coming out of that tent again.

Chapter 2

Caleb Lawler had known at first glance that the farm he returned to in 1865 was not the same farm he’d left in 1861. He had been home only once during the war. As his outfit had moved north, he had passed so close to the farm that he had been unable to resist the temptation to steal away for a quick visit to see Theresa and the children. He had known then that the farm was in poor shape, but after the visit, things got worse. He left Theresa pregnant with Jerusha, and carrying the child sapped the little strength she’d had left.

After they learned about Appomattox, he had been more than a month getting home, walking most of the way, hitching an occasional ride in a farm wagon. He arrived in time for the baby’s birth, but that was the one bright spot in his homecoming. Had he not lived on the farm most of his life, he’d not have known it.

The fences were down, the weeds were up. The house was intact, more or less, but shabby. The stock was gone. The cows, the pigs, the horses--they had all been taken early, most of them by desperate Confederate quartermasters, the rest by Yankee troops. Theresa and the children were alive, and not much more.

Caleb struggled with the farm through the rest of that year and the early part of 1866, but by spring, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to survive there. He had no money for replenishing his stock. Or for buying seed. Or for making repairs. Or worse, for paying the exorbitant taxes assessed on his place.

But if he sold the place, he told Theresa, there was enough to get a new farm. Not in Tennessee--not anywhere around here--but in Oregon. There was land in Oregon, he told her. He’d heard stories about it. Plenty of land. And if they sold the place, they’d have enough to make the trip. Enough to outfit themselves for westering. Enough to start a farm when they got there.

Theresa wasn’t convinced.

I don’t know, Cal, she shook her head. The idea of moving was frightening to her. We’ve lived here all our lives. We’ve never lived anywhere else. I mean, Cal, all our family lived here. In Tennessee, I mean.

‘Lived’ is right, Tess. You said that right. ‘Lived.’ We got no more family here. Here or no place else. He looked around as if searching for the absent family, and drummed his fingers on the table. Everybody is dead, Tess, everybody we used to know. Living in this place is like living in a graveyard.

I know, I know, she said. But it’ll get better, Cal, you know it will. It’ll be just like it used to be. Oregon… She whispered the word in the same tone she might have used for Africa. That’s so far away, Cal. Almost like another world. And we got no kin there, we don’t know anybody.

"Hunh. We got no kin, nobody here. And it ain’t gonna get no better, Tess. In fact, it’s getting worse. Them carpetbaggers--moving in like vultures. All that ‘reconstruction’ talk. Them Yankees are out to get us, Tess. They want to rub our noses in it. We lost. They won. They ain’t gonna let us get over that for a long time. Nope, he stared off into space, still for a moment. This place ain’t gonna be no place for people to live for a while. Leastways not people like us."

They were sitting in the kitchen, the early spring rain dripping through the roof into an empty lard bucket. For the moment, that was the only sound in the room. The children were asleep, and the lamplight fell on the blond curls of the baby who had nodded off in Theresa’s arms. She shifted the heavy tot to her shoulder and rose to put her into her crib. When she returned to the kitchen, Caleb was adding a column of figures on a scrap of brown paper.

If I take that Yankee up on his offer to buy this place, I’ll make just about enough to do it. Ain’t half what it’s worth, but it’s about enough. I think we ought to do it.

"Sell our place to a Yankee?"

Have to, Tess. They’re the only ones got any money.

But, Cal, she stretched out her hand to touch his sleeve. Couldn’t we wait a while? Next year, maybe, when the baby’s bigger… If direct opposition didn’t work, perhaps delaying would serve.

But he shook his head. "We can’t make it to next year, Tess. Either we’ll starve or lose the place to taxes. Or we won’t be able to sell it at all. We gotta do it now. Besides, other women take babies. Heck, lots of them have babies on the way."

But it’s so far, Cal, and there’s Indians, and I don’t know anything about westering, or anything… She trailed off helplessly. They’d had this talk before, and each time she raised the same arguments, and each time she met with the same answers, the same resistance, the same mindset. He wanted to go and he was becoming impatient with her.

He sighed, tapping the stub of pencil, eager to make her see, frustrated that he could not. Now, Tess, we’ve gone over all this before. Nobody knows anything about doing this till they do it. That’s all. And sure, it’s far, but there ain’t nothing to do about that. As for the Indians, well, the Yankees sent the army out there now, and they got treaties. It ain’t that bad.

He paused, glancing at her sideways, ready to try a new direction. I don’t like pushing you into something you don’t want to do, but I don’t think you see how things are here. I intend on going.

She raised her eyes, blinking at him.

You and the children can either go with me now, or I’ll go on out there and send for you when I get us a place.

She went pale in the lamplight, and she opened her mouth, then closed it again. She felt cornered by this tactic, as he had known she would. She was afraid of going at all, but she was infinitely more afraid of going across the country without him. Finally she raised her hand to her throat and nodded. I see. Then I guess we’d better get ready and go all together if we’re going. She paused, looking into the lamp’s flame. The room was quiet except for the drip of the rain. Andy will be real happy we’re going.

Caleb grinned at her, trying not to look triumphant, but pleased with himself, happy that he had at last found the right leverage. I guess he will. That boy’s got the fever to emigrate.

Huh, she said. Wonder where he caught it.

He patted her hand. Now, Tess, don’t you worry. This is the right thing to do. It’ll be better, you’ll see. You won’t be sorry.

He was wrong. She was sorry already.

The night before they were to leave, Theresa rose from her bed, shaken awake by a nightmare so terrifying that she felt as if she were fighting to wake up. She sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, her heart pounding until her body shook. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her body, trying to stop the shaking. She turned to look at Caleb, thinking that she must have awakened him, but he was motionless, breathing the regular breaths of deep sleep. She rose and padded down the hall on bare feet, unwilling to go back to bed yet.

In the kitchen she lit the kerosene lamp and sat down at the table, the dream still with her so strongly that she felt disoriented. In her nightmare, she had been somewhere, in some unfamiliar place, and she had been terribly, dreadfully frightened, but she didn’t know why. She had been wandering alone over a barren landscape, looking for Caleb and the children. The sky above her was black with storm clouds, and the wind was blowing, and she searched and searched for some sight of her family. She called their names over and over, each time louder, until she was screaming for them. Finally, over the wind, she heard an answer, and she ran toward the sound, running, falling, running, until she saw Caleb. She had been so relieved, she remembered, to find him, but when she reached him, he fell and didn’t move. She lifted his head onto her lap, and it was bloody. Blood was all over, gushing out of him, but she couldn’t find the wound. His life was pouring out of him, and she couldn’t help, and she screamed. He opened his eyes and looked up at her and murmured something. She leaned over him, calling his name, and he whispered, The children…the children… and then he was dead.

She thought she had screamed aloud, because she had awakened herself, but apparently she had not. The house was quiet. She looked around the room. With most of their kitchen goods packed, the place looked bare and unfamiliar.

She looked down at her hands, clenched into fists in her lap. Why am I so afraid? she asked herself. I went through the whole war, kept us alive, held us together, and I was never this scared. Not even when the Yankees came through, burning everything in sight. What is it about this trip? I wouldn’t be scared if we were moving to Atlanta. Or New Orleans. Or even some place like New York. I’d hate it, but I wouldn’t be scared. Still, I know about those places. I guess I’m just scared because I don’t know about Oregon.

But she couldn’t ease her fears, couldn’t shake off the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She told herself she was being silly. Nobody else is scared, she thought. They all think it’s a big adventure.

She rose from the table, lifting the lamp and moving silently down the hall. She stopped at the door to Andy’s room, pushing it open quietly so she wouldn’t wake him, even though she knew that was hardly necessary. Andy could sleep with cannons going off in his room. She lifted the lamp and the light gleamed on his hair, so like her own. It was already being bleached out by the sun. He wouldn’t wear a hat much. By summer’s end, it would be almost white.

She closed the door gently and moved down the hall to the girls’ room. The two heads were dark against the pillows, and Anne’s thin arm was flung across Maggie’s sturdy body. Theresa set the lamp down and moved the arm, smoothing the covers Maggie had kicked off back over the two of them. She lifted the lamp again, and stood a moment beside the baby’s crib. The blonde ringlets were gold in the lamplight, and she reached down and touched one of them, moving it off the damp little cheek. Jerusha’s mouth made little sucking movements, then was still. Jerusha was the only one of the girls who looked like Theresa. Jerusha and Andy. Maggie and Anne had Caleb’s dark hair, though only Maggie had his dark eyes.

Theresa stopped at the door and looked at them once more over her shoulder. My babies, she thought. My sweet babies. Dear God, don’t let anything bad happen to my children.

The first part of the trip was great fun, at least for the children, and Theresa had been forced to admit that it wasn’t too bad. They planned to pick up the Oregon Trail from Independence, Missouri, and the trip from Pulaski to Independence had been easy enough. The roads were good, and the towns were close together. The children thought sleeping outdoors was a fine treat. They dragged their blankets under the wagon when it rained and rode in the wagon during the day. But Theresa’s unease was only pushed aside, not quelled; and as time passed, Caleb’s concerns began to grow, too.

His problems were not like Theresa’s vague apprehensions, however. His worries were specific and human. Should he have used oxen instead of mules to pull the wagon? He’d bought mules--they were more expensive, but he knew how to handle them. He’d had mules on the farm all his life. Oxen were an unknown element. The other travelers he met on his way to Independence bound for various destinations used oxen. But they all agreed that mules were faster, and that fact, ultimately, convinced him that he’d been right.

Because that addressed his biggest concern: time. They had decided on making the trip in March, but by the time he was able to make the arrangements to sell the farm and get underway, they were well into April, and they were getting into May before they reached the jump-off point in Missouri.

There was no shortage of outfitters in Independence where they laid in supplies for the trip, and no shortage of free advice. The clerk in the store where they bought their goods shook his head when he heard their destination.

Little late in the season to be startin’ fer Oregon, Mister. Most of them wagon trains left more’n a month ago.

I heard. Figure we can make it though, with a little luck.

Well-l-l-l, if you have any sorta luck at all, you oughta me able to ‘thout too much trouble. What do you say, Hank? He turned to the grizzled old man leaning on the counter, listening to the exchange. Hank, here, he made the trip hisself, some time back.

Been twenty years. The old man spat on the floor. Harder back then. Trail warn’t so good as it is now. Not that it’s much now, what I hear, but least it’s marked some better.

Caleb turned to the old man, interested. I know it’s a little late to start, but we oughta be able to get through if we hurry along, don’t you think?

Depends. What’re you driving?

Mules.

How many?

Three teams.

Four’s better.

Caleb shrugged. I got what I could pay for.

Oh, the old man shifted his wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other, nothin’ wrong with three. Just that two’s the least you can get by with, and four ‘lows for more ‘mergencies. You gonna have ‘mergencies in plenty ‘fore you get to see the elephant.

The elephant? Caleb looked blank.

See the elephant. Nobody told you ‘bout the elephant?

Caleb shook his head. The old man chuckled. Thought everbody heerd that one. You folks greener’n most. He spat, missing the spittoon. Seeing the elephant is kinda like--well, like, oh, seeing it all, I guess. Seeing the worst that trail has to offer. You goin’ to Or’gon, you gonna see the elephant ‘fore you get there, sure ‘nough. He tilted his head and eyed Caleb from under his bushy brows. "You just be