The Sound of Peace

By David J. Murnion

About the Book
The Sound of Peace is the saga of two dynamic Quaker families immigrating to Central Montana in 1879, where nothing resembling European civilization exists except one abandoned fort and one trading post operated by two men of questionable reputation. From 1879-1884, everything changes: There are three gold strikes in three nearby island mountain ranges, two huge open-range cattle companies who resent homesteaders, at least five small towns within a 50-mile radius, road agents, and vigilantes. For the two Quaker families, made up of unique individuals, it is not always possible to maintain their peaceful lifestyle.

About the Author
David J. Murnion was born in the territory of Alaska and moved to Eastern Montana at the age of eight, whereupon his family assumed management of his grandparents’ 76-square-mile sheep, cattle, and horse ranch, where his father was born. He learned a great deal of Indigenous history and early open-range cattle era from the land itself and from many old-timers.
David currently lives with his wife, Jacqueline, in a one-room log cabin off the grid in a small mountain range in Central Montana, where he writes, Jacqueline is an artist, and together they hike and travel to national parks and monuments, and to wilderness areas and wildlife refuges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jun 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887297286

Book preview

ONE

NEBRASKA PRAIRIE, 1879

The air was charged in some strange way, consequently Maureen felt out of sorts. Another stifling hot day, and she wondered why she had even bothered hanging the laundry on the line; it would be nearly dry before she got it all out of the tub.

She had been at it most of the morning. The day felt more unnatural as time passed. She was weary of the day in/day out hauling water from the trickle of a creek that ran nearby, cooking on a wood stove in a place where wood was almost nonexistent, keeping youngsters clean and fed, cleaning the new sod house, and on and on.

Some days, like today, it felt like too much, and there was this on-edge sensation like lightning about to strike, as if something abnormal was about to descend on them.

She scanned the wide vast prairie all around: nothing. No dust, no clouds, no rain, no wind, just the endless sea of waving grass already turning brown. Two antelope off to the south.

A meadowlark singing.

These were the moments when she wondered why they were here with nothing but ceaseless prairie and scorching heat.

Why this place? She often asked herself the question.

A phrase from the Good Book pushed its way into her mind.

…for the meek shall inherit the earth…

She would rest after hanging the clothes, there would be a little time before Gale came in with the team and wagon loaded with more hay to store up for the winter.

Sometimes strange prayers issued forth from her mind:

She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth not the bread of idleness…

She often read a few passages to the children each evening after supper as a prelude to bedtime, and she could admit to herself this was as much to shore up her sometimes faltering faith as it was to introduce Scripture to her sons and daughters.

It was an old tradition in her family and Gale seemed to approve.

Some days when she had doubts, like today, or if she was tired, also like today, a passage from the reading the night before would crowd itself into her thinking, not always accurate, but it seemed to her that God was speaking to her in his own language in time of need.

She felt in need so much these days. She wiped a stray strand of straw-colored hair aside; the sun had bleached her brown hair out and she rather liked it.

Two year old Dee Dee sat in the dirt in her little petticoat. Presently she was sitting very still, utterly fascinated by a stinkbug rolling a small glob of cow manure along.

Twelve year old Kathleen was emptying the water from the laundry tubs. Josiah had his rifle out, sat on the steps cleaning it. Josiah was ten, and already assumed the responsibilities of hunter and protector whenever Gale was out working in the field.

There’s something not right today. She could feel it, but…when she took in the country on all sides of them, it looked the same as it always did; vast, empty, huge pastel blue sky, endless prairie. Well, not empty, but...so immense that it could contain so much more life than it did.

Why didn’t it?

When they had arrived, in April, she had asked, Why here? Why this place?

And Gale had replied, No one else will take up land here. We’ll have time to get settled, prove up on our homestead claim, start filing for more land around us. In a few years, we’ll own quite a spread.

She saw the possibility for his dream to own a large swath of land alright, but to what end? And the suffering they were enduring to attain that vision? How could it be worth it?

She had to give him high marks for ambition, he had set to immediately. A bricklayer and hod carrier by trade and sometime stone mason back in New York, just like his father had been in the old country, Ulster, Ireland, Gale cut the sod like oversized bricks, hauled them in wagon loads at a time, fit them together with mud. He laid poles—obtained with great labor from twenty some miles away where the country broke off into pine breaks—side by side as a roof, laid sheets of spare wagon canvas on the peeled poles. Then he simply hauled dirt up and spread it evenly a foot thick for insulation.

Already, weeds and some tufts of grass were growing from the roof. Eventually, there would be a thick carpet of grass that would shed rain and snowmelt.

As a house it felt special. It was cool inside, even on terribly hot days. It had a window on each side covered with oil cloth which admitted some light, even a glass window on the south side, beside the door.

Now, when he wasn’t cutting hay, Gale was constructing a sod barn. It was much bigger, slower going, but he was confident he would have it finished by first snow.

There was so much to do. He had one field plowed, harrowed and planted in wheat, but the crop did not look promising, for it had been unseasonably dry. The June rains should have come.

She looked hopefully to the west for a rain cloud coming over the horizon.

Blessed rain would be most welcome.

She thought she detected a haze far to the west. Wind? Dust? Heat mirage?

A breeze would cool them off.

Mama, Kathleen stood up anxiously, and Maureen expected to see Indians again.

Yes, dear.

What’s that noise?

Noise? Maureen turned an ear to the west.

Kathleen looked around for the source of the sound she was hearing.

What noise? Maureen inquired again, seeing nor hearing nothing, but there was this strange energy in the air, intensified, not like an impending lightning storm as she had previously thought, not like a wind about to come up or a tornado, but...something.

Kathleen was a very mature twelve years old, walked out on the parched yard, listening, watching.

Then Maureen heard it, very faint, far to the west. A distant hum-whine.

Hail? she wondered. God help them.

She stared west, where the noise seemed to originate. Dust clouds? Couldn’t be hail, there were no clouds anywhere.

She felt an unordinary fear run up her legs. Part of her wanted to run.

Behind her, she heard Gale coming in with the team and wagon heaped with dry grass hay he had cut but a few days ago. A pitchfork protruded from the mound of hay like a toothpick.

He stopped beside the house, vaulted off the wagon. He was an energetic five-six, slim and quick and sure of himself and dashingly handsome. Maureen was nearly his height, which did not seem to bother Gale in the slightest.

Gale, she said, scared.

He walked out a ways, surveying, wondering.

This was more frightening than a week ago when three Indians had showed up at their place. Little Dee Dee was playing in the dirt and Maureen looked out to see three Indians sitting on their very still ponies. One moment they were not there and there had been no sign of them whatsoever, the next there they were, waiting as if for an appointment.

Maybe they had been waiting longer than she had realized.

When Maureen got over her initial fear, she understood they were peaceful, one was watching Dee Dee as if slightly amused.

Another had a freshly killed yearling antelope draped over his pony in front of him.

It was evident they wanted to trade for something, so she stepped out and with a few English words they had picked up and numerous gestures she understood they wanted coffee, sugar and flour. As a Quaker, she would have felt duty-bound to give them what she could spare without the trade; that they wanted to trade fresh meat for these commodities raised her respect for them.

So she made up cloth bundles of each and another bundle of fresh biscuits and took them out in exchange for the antelope.

They turned their ponies, and simply rode away. She could see they were pleased.

She didn’t know what tribe they were; that evening Gale surmised they could have been Osage.

She and Josiah had skinned and dressed the antelope out and that first evening they had liver and heart. They pegged the hide down and fleshed it. They were still drying the meat to store in canisters for the coming winter.

But this faint hum growing louder was really frightening. Now there showed a visible dust cloud in the west and it seemed to be spreading out as it advanced.

A dust storm? she queried the air.

Gale kept a wary watch while he unhitched the team, stashed the harness beneath some canvas to protect it from rain, although they had not seen rain in over a month, and whatever was moving their way did not smell like rain.

He led the bay and the dun to the rear of the house where he measured out precious oats in a small trough. The horses bent their heads down and side by side, began consuming the grain.

The sound now resembled a distant freight train rushing towards them on steel tracks, though they had not seen nor heard a train since they left the all but abandoned Oregon Trail and settled in this heartland of Nebraska.

Gale came around the house and the advance guard arrived, flying and clicking and jumping—a large gruesome thing out of a nightmare.

Locusts! Gale yelled.

Oh my God! Maureen scooped up Dee Dee and Sean in each arm and ran for the house.

Gale shouted at Josiah who was standing out front a hundred feet or so with his cleaned rifle, facing the cloud like a sentry.

Kathleen screamed as one got in her hair.

Gale slapped it away, pushed Kathleen inside, Josiah bolted for the house as the horde began pelting the ground and house like dark hail. Gale slammed the door after them.

The hungry whine turned into an insane roar-hum, as thousands of the insects hit their door and windows, the side of the house.

The hordes blocked out light, the glass window turned dark, day became night. The noise was so loud now, and hungry, it was maddening in their ears, as if the sound was amplified coming down a tunnel.

And I shall smite thee with a plague of locusts…

The words came to Maureen, a distortion she knew, it always happened when she was stressed.

Kathleen sat on a chair enveloping Sean, shoulders hunched, one hand over an ear. Josiah gazed about wild eyed, not certain how he could fight this thing. Dee Dee whimpered in her mother’s arms.

The din increased to an unbearable racket, like a train engine right on top of them. It seemed to come from inside their skulls, their very bones vibrated. It was driving her mad! The locusts were consuming the world!

And the day shall turn to dark…

She prayed for this tribulation to end, but it went on and on, her prayers were drowned. They heard the horses whinny and bolt and run pell-mell. She felt like hungry teeth were coming after everything—clothing, her flesh, blood, even her soul.

Dee Dee wailed, Sean yelled, Kathleen clutched him tight.

Please dear God end this horror…

But it only got worse. Something terrible was happening, then she saw it; the locusts were eating out the oil cloth covering the windows. Gale and Josiah took up brooms and mops, killed them as they invaded the interior of the house. Hundreds of them, instantly, thousands. Gale was hollering curses over the storm, the locusts were huge ugly brutes desperate for feed, anything, anything was fodder. They were eating everything. Maureen and the youngsters were batting them out of their hair.

Maureen knocked a dozen away, grabbed a coverlet and threw it over Kathleen and Sean, covered Dee Dee and herself with a blanket.

Still the storm raged, deafening now, intense, no letup. Locusts made it beneath the blanket and she stamped on them, the stench became so bad she gagged and had to put her head out of the blanket where she was sick and another horde assailed her hair.

Locusts splattered against the glass like pellets, so hard she feared the glass would break. Beat against the door with a terrible hammering.

She smashed at leaping, crawling insects two and three inches long. If there was a hell, this was it.

It was so dark she could barely see what she was doing. The plague had blotted out the sun. Something broke somewhere, a lamp and she smelled coal oil leaking, a pan clanged on the floor as they tried to beat back the invasion, but locusts were coming in every window.

Kathleen was screaming and sobbing and panting all at once, thrashed frantically with a rolled-up catalogue. Gale shouted out terrible phrases to the heavens in a rough cadence to defeat this infernal Babel of evil. In the din Maureen’s brain said, We will never be the same, we cannot abide this. She stomped about in a frenzied unmeasured dance.

It was lessening, blessedly. The din was retreating.

Gradually, they killed all the insects inside, and the light came through the windows like sudden daybreak. An occasional straggler hit the window.

The rumbling receded, like a freight train going around the bend, disappearing and gone. After a bit, only the sound of their heavy breathing in the house and a stench of dead locusts rising up.

She sat holding Dee Dee, exhausted, stroking her whimpers away. Dee Dee, her precious.

Kathleen brushed pieces of insect from Sean’s hair and from her own.

Josiah and Gale went outside.

Lord, have mercy, Gale said.

And I have smote thee and now thou shalt go to the Promised Land…

Maureen finally had the energy to stand up with Dee Dee, went to the door. Utter horror greeted her. She could not believe what she was seeing.

She went out on the stoop.

The prairie for as far as they could see in all directions was completely devoid of plant life. Not a blade of grass anywhere. Barren. Even the fence posts were eaten down to almost nothing.

The ground was littered with dead and struggling insects—many would be wounded in such a frenzied march. She looked east, the swarm was cutting a swath of hell through God’s country. Only a faint diminishing haze was visible to the east.

Even the few tufts of grass and weeds growing from their sod roof were gone.

The laundry on the line was shredded.

There was nothing left anywhere. The few sagebrush were bare of foliage.

Kathleen was at her side, clutching Sean to her dress, eyes wide with the terrible knowledge of what she had just witnessed and what it meant.

They spent the next several hours almost wordlessly cleaning the house and yard. Then Gale and Josiah were gone for some time after the horses and Bessie the Jersey milk cow. The calf was in the pen by the partly built barn, bawling piteously.

Maureen kept trying to shake the shock from her mind, but it was like she had been permanently stamped with the terror. She worked methodically, mostly on instinct.

She heated up bath water and hauled water from the creek, barren of all shrubbery. She heated up more water to wash out clothing and bedding, water to scour pots and pans and then she attempted to fasten leftover oil cloth on the windows. Still there was a growing odor of decaying locusts.

She finally had the house in order and the evening meal going as Gale and Josiah returned leading horses and Bessie. Early that morning, Josiah had shot two sagehens, so she made an abundant stew with flour dumplings.

Then, all were at the table and they bowed their heads in prayer and ate.

One lamp was broken, Maureen lit the other two.

We cain’t stay here, Gale spoke at last. Crop is gone. All the grass is ate up. All my hay is gone.

All that hard work cutting, drying in windrows, hauling in the cured grass. Vanished. Just like that.

There’s nothing left for us here, Gale finished.

Maureen waited. Josiah and Kathleen paused, expectant.

Where will we go? Maureen asked at last.

Gale shrugged, Maybe Oregon. This was a mistake. I had a big dream here and the land cannot abide such a dream.

He got up from the table and walked out into the night.

Maureen’s head still buzzed with the maddening hungry whine of locusts. She doubted that awful drone would ever leave her, or if her world would ever be the same.

TWO

It took them two full days just to prepare. Gale had to repair the canvas cover, mount the curved wooden ribs on his large farm wagon, fit the canvas snug over the ribs and secure it against high winds they would no doubt encounter. He had to use remnants of old harness to repair places where the locusts had chewed into his good sets he had stashed under the canvas.

Feed for horses and Bessie was scarce, there were a few wisps of hay left and he had some oats. Josiah had no luck hunting prairie chickens or sagehen.

The land had been wiped clean of all life except their own.

Maureen packed, thinking of contingencies; what if somebody got hurt? What if they were stranded in one place for a spell with the wagon broke down? What if somebody was burned? Shot and wounded? Sick with fever?

Her heart literally caught in her throat: fever. Her daughter Elizabeth died of fever shortly after they started out a year ago.

She nearly wept at the memory of leaving the lonely grave back on the trail.

With great mental effort she forced herself to think in practical terms. They didn’t have much.

She gathered items as she came across them in the house; alum for wounds, all the blankets they owned, matches, clothing stuffed into two big trunks, sheets and pillows, the brandy, camphor for medicine, both butcher knives, iodine, every grain of salt in the house, sugar, flour, dried spearmint leaves, her canned pickles. Vinegar, witch hazel ointment, soap, yeast cakes, candles, more matches, the harmonica.

While she was cleaning the house of goods, Gale and Josiah were packing away tools and rope and strips of leather for harness repair, both big wooden barrels to fill with water. Maureen set the butter churn out to be loaded, cheese cloth, milk pail.

On the third morning they departed with the wagon fully loaded, southwest to intercept the Mormon Trail on the north side of the Platte. Maureen looked back one last time like Lot’s wife, but she did not turn into a pillar of salt. They had left the door open, the broken lamp was on the floor—another shattered dream on an unforgiving land.

Gale had some time back dug a pit for refuse well away from the house; it wasn’t even close to half full. The sunlight glinted off shiny bottles and tin cans. The clothing shredded by the locusts had been thrown in a heap after they had cut off the buttons.

She turned her face to the front for the uneven journey ahead.

This was not going to be an easy migration.

It was late June and they had only so much time to reach someplace and get settled.

And I shall test thee with trials and tribulations such has never been seen. Thou shalt see pestilence and plague…

She really ought to try to think in a good way. The land had been chewed flat, there was nothing for the horses and the milk cow till the second day when they reached a stream. Gale said it was a tributary of the Platte. They laid up there for a night and half a day, allowed horses and cow to graze their fill. Gale filled one barrel full of water, which loaded down the wagon considerably.

Another night they camped in rolling endless prairie and built a fire of buffalo chips. Gale wanted to talk about Oregon.

I hear tell a family can do right smart in Oregon.

Can we have a house of logs? Josiah asked.

Son, you’ll see the biggest house made of logs you can imagine, Gale replied proudly. I hear there’s trees four and five hundred feet tall.

Five hundred feet! young Sean exclaimed.

Maureen pushed the lump of grief that was Elizabeth far, far down and away. The family felt generally good about moving.

She filled the kettle and put it over the fire on the iron stand while her family exaggerated about the bountiful land that was Oregon.

The night was peaceful and she breathed in the cool air. It had been a hot day and tomorrow would be hot and the day after. She longed for a good bath, clean clothes, a day free of the eternal heat.

After a few days of maneuvering around coulees and generally staying on course, they arrived at the hills overlooking the Platte River. A Union Pacific train chugged along the tracks on a winding course with the river.

Can we ride the train? Sean asked.

If we do, we’ll have to leave practically everything behind, Gale reminded them.

Descending the steep hills along the Platte was more arduous than if they had needed to climb them. Gale and Josiah tied sizeable boulders on ropes to the back of the wagon to act as drags. Going down a winding couloir, Gale rode the brake, Josiah and Maureen pulled back on the tail of the wagon. Kathleen led Bessie down with the calf bawling alongside.

The wagon threatened to tip precariously, Maureen and Josiah threw their weight to the upside as counterweight. Dust rose like dry sticky pollen, choked them, stayed with them all the way down. There were moments Maureen held her breath, but she needn’t have worried, Gale was adept at reining in the team, working the brake just right.

They wound down along the coulee that descended all too steeply.

At one point Gale stopped completely, asked the two youngsters to get out.

We have to move the water barrel to the upside, Gale said, and I cain’t leave the brake.

Maureen and Josiah clambered in, put their shoulders to the heavy barrel, nudged it by inches till it was on the high side, wedged a trunk in to hold it from sliding.

We shoulda emptied the barrel, Gale said.

It’s good water though, Maureen pointed out.

The last curve descending to the bottomlands was steeper than anything they had encountered.

Gale slowly released the brake just enough and gently urged the team ahead. Again, Josiah and Maureen jumped up on the high side to counterbalance the wagon some.

Slow as a turtle, with some final creaking and grinding, they made it down, bumped over same brush, and they were on the bottom. Gale flashed a grin at his son.

Hordes of mosquitos descended on them, they fought them off as best they could.

We’ll camp early, Gale announced as everyone got back in the wagon.

Kathleen retied Bessie to the tailgate while Josiah untied the boulders, coiled the ropes.

There were geese on the river and Josiah stalked along the shore in the brush till he saw a pair of ganders floating serenely a little ways out. He shot one while it sat on the water, levered another cartridge in the chamber of the Henry’s six-shot as the other gathered some air under his wings. Josiah shot him about six feet above the water. He laid his rifle down, stripped off his clothes and swam out to retrieve them. The water was colder than he had supposed.

They made camp in some willows and fought off mosquitos by the thousands. While Maureen cleaned the geese and Kathleen cleaned the young ones up at the river’s edge. Josiah caught several fish. Gale saw to the team, milked the cow. Maureen gathered firewood, had a big fire going. The smoke kept the mosquitos away. After Gale put the horses on their pickets, he rubbed them down while they consumed the last of the oats. He checked their feet, pulled burrs from their tails.

I feel right good about this move, Maureen, Gale said over a supper of roast goose, biscuits and fish.

Maureen felt relaxed and optimistic for the first time in a long while.

I trust we will be Divinely guided, she replied.

Where we at, Papa? Josiah asked, forking in fried fish.

Near as I can figure, we’re almost square in the middle of Nebraska. This is, I believe, what they call the Council Bluff’s Trail. The one the Mormons took to get to Utah.

Why aren’t there more people on this trail? Maureen queried. I would think the trail would be busier.

It was true, for the moment they had the country to themselves.

As if Maureen’s wondering had summoned them, in the morning they were joined by half a dozen wagons. The wagon train stopped at seeing the Mourne family hitching the team and preparing to set out.

The apparent wagon master vaulted off his wagon seat, strode towards them through the brush and grass. He wore a wide-brimmed dandy’s hat and a sweaty dusty shirt and a dirty vest and worn trousers, scuffed boots.

A pair of sandhill cranes lifted from the water and, with a grace all their own, set off upriver. Maureen took this as a good omen.

Howdy there, the wagon master proclaimed.

Mornin’, Gale turned to him and they shook hands.

They were the same height, the wagon master was wide through the shoulders. He was big chested, with an oversized head made much larger by his exorbitant mustache and mutton chops.

The big brown hat was clamped on his crown at an angle.

His diminished wife who appeared washed out and exhausted peered through their wagon opening.

Several other travelers were checking their horses’ feet, drinking from dippers of water out of their water barrels tied on the sides of their wagons.

J. L. Belton.

Gale Mourne. Gale batted mosquitos away.

Where ya headed then? Belton asked cordially.

Oregon.

Four ducks flew over quack-quacking, circled towards the water, settled in smoothly all at once a hundred yards out. Josiah watched them as they landed, made a move to step that way with his Henry.

Oregon, huh? Well, now that’s fine and yer welcome to join us. We’ll be tryin’ to reach Fort Laramie first. By my calculation, we’re about 200 miles from the Fort. We’ll cross the divide on Mitchell Pass.

Gale looked at the small wagon train. At this time of year a decade ago, there would have been three hundred wagons going west.

Now, the railroad took many folks, or steamboats, stage coaches.

We’re behind times, Gale commented to his wife as he mounted the seat, took up reins and hawed the team in behind the other wagons.

Maureen knelt at the opening looking through.

We’re going to breathe a lot of dust today, she predicted.

I’ll hang back as much as I can, Gale assured her, and let the team pull at their own pace.

Ever west, stubborn and obstinate, some men held the pace with a fierce determination. In the evenings, some men and some wives found themselves short tempered and among a couple families there was constant wrangling.

Gale and Maureen did their best to avoid them, remained steadfast in reading some Scripture in the evenings, maintained family harmony as befitting the Quaker faith.

Family harmony was the most essential effort they could make each morning.

After several days of heat and dust, mosquitos and horseflies, they started through the scorching Sand Hills.

In a couple days they passed Courthouse Rock, a day and a half later, Chimney Rock, both located on the south side of the river.

This was the North Platte and it wound northwest by west.

There were so many geese, in the evenings most men shot one or two for evening meal. Josiah liked to sneak up at river’s edge, shoot one or two before they knew it. Often he hit the geese in the head or neck, thus ruining very little meat.

They felt good going along at a steady pace northwest, to Oregon.

The trail had been so travelled for the past three decades, they could have done it at night, almost blindfolded.

Water was handy, wood was plentiful, but the mosquitos!

Why did God create mosquitos? Josiah asked once.

To test our spirits, I expect, Gale replied.

The days ran into one another as a blur of events; a wagon broke down, the train stopped so men could lift the back end up, repair the axel and floorboards. Every so often, a Union Pacific train chugged up or down the tracks across the river. Mrs. Morgan, whom they had barely met, succumbed to the terrible heat and they held a service and buried her on a little rise off the trail. Somebody fashioned a crude wooden cross, carved her name in it, and while her two children cried their father loaded them up and the train moved on.

The dust choked them and served to keep most of the mosquitos down during the day, but in the evenings whining hordes buzzed around their faces. Most everyone sat in the smoke from their campfires where the mosquitos avoided.

Cranes and geese and ducks and more cranes, sometimes six or eight at a time, flying in a line of orderly discipline.

Heat and choking dust, horseflies and deerflies, and no promise of rain. In the evenings, take care of horses, milk cows, mosquitos everywhere, campfires, meals to cook, hunting, fishing, sleep with your face inside your bedroll.

Some evenings: a fiddle, a harmonica, and one night they heard an accordion—such sweet sounds whenever they heard someone at a campfire playing music.

In the chill of dawn, get moving, shake the stiffness from your legs, campfires, meal, water, hitch the teams, get going. On to Oregon, so far away yet.

They took to wearing bandanas or scarves over their mouths during the day travel.

The primary advantage in rolling alongside the river was the easy access to water, and the trail was well worn. They filled canteens, found cooking water, watered stock, took plunges in the river to cool off and bathe.

Every evening, Josiah or Gale milked Bessie and they drank fresh milk, blessed fresh milk.

During the day they put what was left of the milk in the butter churn mounted on the side of the wagon. The day’s bumping and jostling churned it into butter, which they consumed in great quantities on biscuits, in the gravy, on the meat and fish, on cornbread.

Josiah went out hunting with the men every evening and some mornings before they rolled, gained a reputation as a sure shot.

One evening in the collective campfire smoke, a Frenchman by the name of LePere pulled out a fiddle and played some stanzas of a lively dance. Kathleen stood at the edge of firelight watching couples whirl and step to the rhythm; Maureen sensed a longing in her daughter that she understood. The music relaxed Maureen, she sat on the wagon tongue and felt, for a time, she could, despite losing her young daughter Elizabeth, perhaps after all, belong to the world.

Now, seemingly of a sudden, the Black Hills appeared on the horizon to the north and the west.

Are we goin’ in those mountains? Josiah asked that morning as they hitched up the team.

The foothills, I reckon. And it won’t be easy, Gale answered somberly.

All day the wagon train labored up steepening terrain along the river. There were some rapids in the water and scattered pine along their route. They crested Mitchell Pass and rode brakes going down hills as the trail veered away from the river and back to it.

They were approaching Scotts Bluff and word travelled back from wagon to wagon: Fort Laramie in two days!

The Traftons were travelling in a huge Constenoga wagon and it tipped over with a terrible splintering noise while going down along a slope. The team spooked and tried to drag the wagon on its side scattering possessions in their fright to get away. Several men jumped from their wagons, ran up to grab the team and calm the horses.

Johnny Trafton was bruised up some, his missus, Maggie, had a fractured arm, the little boy Mark was unhurt.

Everyone pitched in to right the wagon, repair box and ribs, sew torn canvas, salvage the Trafton’s goods while Maureen fashioned a set of splints.

She looked into Maggie Trafton’s lined and gaunt face.

I’m so weary, Maggie said, on the verge of tears.

I don’t expect any of us had any notion how hard this would be.

I keep telling Johnny, maybe we should go up the Bozeman Trail, settle in southern part of Montana Territory. He’s so stubborn, he has his mind set on Oregon.

Then she broke down and cried, so Maureen held her for a long time while they sat in the shade of the Mournes’ wagon.

Kathleen had Sean and Dee Dee and little Mark, who wore a vest and a little derby, which made him look like a diminutive gambler.

Josiah, seeing Mrs. Trafton distraught, took little Mark’s hand.

Want to catch some fish?

Mark nodded.

Let’s go then, Josiah said with enthusiasm and they traipsed off towards the river with two willow fishing poles from the Mournes’ wagon.

After a long spell, Maggie Trafton quit crying. Maureen laid Maggie’s broken arm on her lap, laid the two splints top and bottom of her arm.

Hard to tell if the break is straight or if it needs set, the way it’s swelling up. Wish there was a doctor along, Maureen said.

Well, there ain’t, Maggie wiped a clean handkerchief over her face with her good hand.

I’ll tie this with wet leather strips the first day. It’ll be painful some when the leather dries and shrinks. If the break is at any angle, the shrinking leather will likely set it straight. It’s the best remedy I know.

I’m obliged, Maggie said.

I have brandy you can drink for the pain, Maureen told her. If you’re not opposed to drinking brandy.

Not at all, Maggie finally smiled.

It was late afternoon by now, so they made camp, and in the early evening another wagon train pulled in behind them, this one longer than their own by a couple wagons.

Well, Belton quipped. The Sanders’ train caught up with us. I knew we was fallin’ behind.

In the morning, Josiah was out early and he ranged far off the river, bagged some sagehen. When he brought them in, he saw a conference going on among the men of both wagon trains.

As he approached the area and walked by the conference, he heard his father say, I pray there’s adequate supplies at Fort Laramie. We got on this trail just past Fort Kearny.

And when Josiah neared their own wagon, his mother was saying to Kathleen, We’re running short of provisions.

They learned the result of the conference soon enough from Gale.

Some of the wagons are going to turn on the Bozeman Trail north. To Montana Territory. Most are headed west. To Oregon. A few are plannin’ on headin’ to California, but of course for now, the California folks are travelin’ with the Oregon people. What got confusing is this train that just pulled in. Some of them are going to Oregon, some to California, one or two to Utah, and a couple up The Bozeman.

Why is everything so mixed up? Maureen shaded her eyes from the sun so she could watch men driving their wagons ahead, some circling out of line to take their place at the rear. The commotion raised too much dust, cows and calves bawled, teams of oxen acted stubborn or unruly, so the drivers cracked long whips over them.

They’re rearranging the whole kit and caboodle—Oregon and California in the front, Montana in the rear.

What difference does it make here? Maureen wondered aloud.

So’s when we get to Fort Laramie, the split-off point is beyond that a day’s travel, the separation will be orderly. That’s where the Montana folks will split off.

We should get a place in line up front, Maureen suggested.

Gale shook his head, Too much wrangling, look at that! I just as soon wait a spell.

Maureen looked at the ground and gave a derisive snort.

That’s Belton for you, Gale groused. He’s got his own way of doin’ things.

Josiah and little Mark showed up with a string of fresh trout. Maureen gratefully laid them on her grill over the fire for a midday meal.

They had just finished eating when Belton swaggered over.

Yer headed to Oregon, that right? he inquired with no preliminaries.

That’s right, Gale said evenly.

You’ll fall in behind the Trafton wagon.

Alright, Gale replied.

They packed everything away, quickly loaded up and Gale took the driver’s seat. He released the brake and urged the team ahead to a place just behind the Traftons.

They were much further back in the wagon train than they had been.

More dust, Maureen murmured.

Wagons fell in behind them and gradually as they were moving, they realized they were at the very rear of the Oregon contingent. The Montana bunch started right behind them. Gale and Maureen rode side by side on the seat and attempted to talk over the jostling and the infernal dust and noise of wagons moving. The damned dust threatened to choke every word off.

That Belton feller don’t like us, Gale said finally.

I know it, Maureen agreed. I have prayed that the Good Lord will soften his heart.

Not likely, Gale muttered.

Still, Maureen was thoughtful, I expect the Good Lord must have something in mind seein’s as how we are where we are.

They rested at Scotts Bluff that night and Josiah took young Mark fishing again. Maureen tended to Maggie Trafton’s arm.

Is it painful?

Some, Maggie said. But it’s bearable. I think it slipped into place while I slept last night.

The swelling’s gone down, Maureen observed. That’s a good sign.

Fort Laramie tomorrow! they heard some man proclaim over his campfire.

They heard gunshots now and then as somebody killed a deer or some ducks on the river.

Did you know we have a scout up front with Belton? Gale asked.

No, who is he? Maureen wanted to know.

Gale shrugged, Some big feller with a couple Indian scalps hanging from his belt.

THREE

They rolled the next day through a scorching heat wave and stifling dust. The horses were so covered with dust they were all dun colored. The wagons bumped and jarred at every exposed rock, some wagons pulled aside so they could check their horses’ feet.

Early evening, Fort Laramie came into view, blessedly, at last. A bridge had been constructed over the river. One at a time the wagons rumbled across with the sounds of wheels on planks echoing across the water.

Fort Laramie seemed a lazy place. The few soldiers acted as if they were off duty. Whiskey sutlers had set up tents, which was fine with the soldiers; they kept the several dozen Indiana hanging around the fort in a perpetual state of slovenly drunkenness.

Mama, those Indians? Kathleen asked with some alarm.

Yes, dear, Maureen was preparing evening meal.

Gale was at the fort to gather information. There were a few buildings outside the fort as if people intended to make the place their home.

"Why are they so poor?" Kathleen wanted to know.

Maureen paused, looked across at a bunch of Indians walking like they were half asleep. She tried for a suitable answer.

I expect they don’t have anything left to lose, she replied, surprising herself with the reply.

While they were eating a supper of beans and tough beef Gale had procured, along with biscuits Maureen had just made in the Dutch oven, another couple wagons pulled in.

Is the whole country moving west? Gale queried the evening.

After some wrangling, the smaller train maneuvered in amidst the big wagon circle.

Maureen walked over to the fort, was gone some time, purchased more flour and coffee, some sugar, a small bottle of lemonade, dried apples. She was distraught when she returned.

Prices is criminal high here, she complained in a low voice to Gale. Sugar is four cents a pound!

Gale didn’t reply.

The wagon next to them had a family of good-looking dark-haired children, except for one young girl who sported auburn curls. The mother was a tall handsome rawboned woman and they had a Holstein milk cow with a calf tied up nearby, and a saddlehorse her husband rode. He was an exceptionally tall rangy man, deliberate and sure in his actions.

He rode over to be sociable.

If you do not mind me askin’, where you folks headed? he inquired with a disarming smile.

Plannin’ on Oregon. Yourself?

Middle part of Montana Territory, the man said. He lowered his voice, I hear tell there’s a new gold strike, but news ain’t out yet.

A new gold strike? That seemed impossible if no one knew of it.

You don’t say, Gale mused, glanced at Maureen.

Their eyes met briefly and she seemed encouraged.

Something about what the man said resonated. Gold strike? If that were so, there would be hordes of miners rushing that way. If it was true word wasn’t out yet, that would explain no one else going to Central Montana.

We’d be pleased if you folks would join us in a prayer meeting after supper, the man said.

Friends, Gale smiled.

This family belonged to the Society of Friends, or Quakers, like themselves. Neither of the two families wore the traditional attire of the Quakers, most certainly not the outlandish hats, but yet they were recognizable to one another.

Maureen? Gale asked.

We’d be honored, sir.

Very well, the big rangy man nodded as if he had known from the start the two families were meant to hold meeting.

After they cleaned dishes, they walked over, Maureen carrying their Bible. The wife smiled and stood, opened her Bible and began reading as soon as the Mourne family was seated on the wagon tongue and logs rolled up for the purpose.

Give ear to my prayer, Oh God, and hide not thyself from my supplication.

Attend unto me, and hear me, I mourn in my complaint and make a noise…

Maureen was finding comfort, so restful to simply sit by their neighbor’s fire and listen to the woman’s melodious voice read out the Scriptures like poetry.

And I said, Oh, that I had ways like a dove! For then would I fly away, and be at rest…

The tall woman turned several pages.

Thou visitest, the earth, and waterest it, thou greatly enriched it with the River of God, which is full of water, thou preparest them corn, when thou hast so provided for us…

The two families were together in their own world apart from the coarse activities around them; a stud poker game at one fire and boisterous, whiskey sutlers selling to other folks around campfires who staggered even while sitting, drunk Indians wandering about…

…Thou waterest the ridges there of abundantly; Thou settlest the furrows there of; Thou makest it soft with showers; Thou blessest the springing there of…

While Maureen enjoyed reading some Scripture in the evenings, it was most often brief due to their weariness. But this was like the regular old-time prayer meeting.

Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and Thy paths are goodness…

The smoke from the fire kept the hungry mosquitos away and the cows cropped grass and laid down to chew their cuds, the horses grazed as far as their picket ropes allowed.

They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness; and the little hills rejoice on every side…

Nevermind the wagon master who apparently did not like them and no matter they had not even met the scout, and had only caught a glimpse of him now and then.

The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing…

For the first time in…since they left their homestead, Maureen felt they possibly, maybe, were going to the Promised Land.

In the morning over breakfast, Gale and Maureen talked about going to Central Montana.

It caused considerable excitement among the children, sparked no end of questions.

Will we see Indians? Sean asked.

Mama, Kathleen observed. It will be shorter travelling for us, won’t it?

Papa, is the hunting good in Montana?

We have two days’ hard travel to the old Fort Fetterman, Gale replied obliquely to the host of questions. That’s where the Bozeman Trail branches off.

Two days to make up our minds, Maureen spoke mostly to herself.

The new Quaker family fell in behind them. The woman drove the team and wagon, she was most capable. Their fourteen year old son walked alongside the wagon. The man of the family rode a tall sorrel gelding.

At midday stop no more than ten miles out of Fort Laramie, several men were engaged in repairing a wheel on the Smith wagon. Maureen got some food out. Josiah was out traipsing with his Henry rifle accompanied by some other boys.

Kathleen was rearranging the goods inside the wagon. Sean was off running and playing with a bunch of youngsters. Gale was one of the men hoisting the Smith wagon up by leveraging a stout pole on a boulder.

Dee Dee was sitting in the worn grass nearby playing in the dirt.

A rattler’s buzz froze Maureen’s blood, she looked and nearly screamed. A big prairie rattler was coiled not two feet from Dee Dee’s face!

Maureen hardly dared take a breath, she eased closer, looking for a weapon. She was terrified to yell for help, her shout would startle the snake into striking. The rattler’s forked tongue flicked in and out, questing far the warmest place to strike.

…and a serpent that was Satan did came into the Garden of Eden and did tempt Eve…

Maureen was four feet away with no plan except to kick the rattler’s head and take the strike herself and that tail was a blur, a dangerous hum that transfixed. Maureen’s heart was in her throat. Dee Dee sat paralyzed, hypnotized, there was no safe way through this when a man spoke beside her.

Excuse me, ma’am.

It was the tall man from the Quaker family who rode the tall sorrel behind them; he had a shovel and he swung it at a terrific angle to the rattler’s head, the rattler struck as the shovel head made contact, a dull whang sounded leaving pus-colored venom. All this in half a second since he spoke, in the next the man lopped the head off with a vicious stroke as Maureen rushed in, scooped her baby and sought the safety of the wagon shade.

Dee Dee bawled at the sudden activity, Maureen shook like she had the chills, swung and rocked herself in a half-circle from side to side to calm the baby and stop her own shaking.

The man took the rattler head some distance off and buried it deep and set a big rock over it. He returned, bent and twisted off the rattles. Folks gathered around.

Twenty-five rattles! somebody marveled. A big ‘un!

Can I have the hide? a young fellow asked.

Help yourself, the big man gestured like it was on the house.

I’ll roast him, another traveler declared, and he whisked the flesh away as soon as the young guy skinned it.

The tall fellow came over, You okay, ma’am?

Yes, Maureen nodded, I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my daughter’s life. I’m indebted.

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