Above Snakes
A Novel By Patti Hudson
Chapter One
Goodsel Munson uncorked a bottle of Margaux. It was a Chateau D'Issan 1856, and had been among the cases he'd managed to save from the wagon fire. He poured a small amount into a crystal goblet and sat back against a cottonwood that grew along a slow moving jag of the Snake. He held the glass to the sun and admired the Margaux's clarity. D'Issan was known for over-racking. Goodsel was pleased with himself for having chosen several cases to bring on his journey. Three months bucking along the Emigrant Trail and the wine had not become disjointed, nor was it heavy with sediment like some of the lesser wines he had also included. He brought the glass to his lips, inhaled deeply, lingering in the Margaux's earthy fragrance. At last he sipped, letting the wine drift across his tongue and trickle down his throat.
It was a disappointing experience. The wine wasn't quite ready. Goodsel continued to sip anyway. Normally, he would have allowed it more time to open up before he drank. These days he was not a patient man.
An unfortunate cooking mishap had forced him to sit at Fort Hall for nearly a week now. At his age he could ill afford such delays; there just wasn't that much time left. He had already out lived two wives, three sons, all his brothers and sisters and most of his friends. Back in Cincinnati burying had become such a regular practice he started thinking of himself as a professional pallbearer.
Goodsel was enjoying the effects of the young Margaux, when one of his oxen ambled over and began rubbing a hip on the cottonwood Goodsel rested against.
"Samson ole boy, how good of you to join me," he said, feeling no embarrassment talking to an ox.
Samson grunted and threw himself into the tree. Bark chipped off and fell on Goodsel as the steer worked his way around the trunk. Goodsel had to pick the chips out of his wine, yet it wasn't until Samson began emitting gas did he consider relocating.
He could have easily asked the ox to move on to another tree. Samson was a docile, amiable creature, more accommodating than most people Goodsel had encountered in his lifetime. A gentleman of some standing, Goodsel had had little occasion to deal with lower creatures, until embarking on his journey to Oregon. During the last few months he had grown reliant on Samson and his yoke-mate, Hector. The two leaders had toiled without complaint and remained loyal through sun or rain, dust or mud. It had surprised Goodsel to discover so late in life that dumb beasts offered superior company to human beings.
Samson was having such a pleasurable encounter with the tree Goodsel decided to leave him to it. "Been good visiting with you, sir, but I believe I'll be moving along," he said, corking the Margaux.
He left the river bank and walked through low grasses that had begun to brown in the dry heat of late summer. Upon reaching his woefully deficient camp, Goodsel checked the French bread he had set to bake on stones near the fire. One loaf was browning unevenly and while fussing with it he burned himself. Flapping his singed hand, he cursed the loss of his oven, which was responsible for the loss of his wagon, the cause of his delay at Fort Hellhole, and now additionally to blame for a burnt hand and an ugly loaf of bread.
When the pain subsided he managed to get the bread rearranged, then set about preparing the remainder of his evening meal.
That morning, Tom Kishnell had delivered a young pronghorn goat, freshly dressed. The meat had the look of red velvet and was so tender Goodsel nearly cried when he cut into it. He knew immediately what he wanted to do. He would braise the sirloin tips with potatoes, carrots, onions and lots of garlic. The prospect of a fine meal had lifted him from the gloom of his current situation. He had spent a pleasant day sorting through his wine stock, anticipating the dinner.
Young Tom Kishnell, a private with an intelligence not usually found in enlisted men, and equally rare rifle skills, had upon discovery of Goodsel's culinary talents agreed to provide meat in exchange for meals. Tom's first contribution had been a buffalo haunch salvaged from a hunt Colonel Howe had deployed to the Yellowstone in order to secure meat for the troops. Though Goodsel had often heard buffalo compared to beef, he found it tough and stringy, and not at all to his liking.
"Not fit for human consumption," Goodsel had complained after trying to gnaw down a most disappointing pot roast. "You suppose the dogs will eat it?"
A few scraggly mutts abandoned by emigrants and now attached to Fort Hall had also discovered Goodsel and taken to visiting his camp at meal times. Tom Kishnell tripped and nearly fell into the fire attempting to save the pot roast from the dogs. He wasn't fast enough. To Goodsel's dismay, the private was actually offended the waste hadn't been offered to him first. Goodsel had considered it a courtesy to spare his guest such slop.
After that experience Tom had concentrated on rabbits, ducks and sage hens. He operated under the belief that small game meant smaller amounts for the dogs in the event of Goodsel's dissatisfaction. But the dogs had largely gone without. All week Goodsel had outdone himself with dishes like hasenpfeffer, breast of duck with wild rice and hen smothered in white sauce.
Despite those successes, Goodsel had been skeptical when Tom rode in just after sunup with a goat draped across his horse. While Tom stuffed down biscuits and slurped coffee, Goodsel had examined the meat and found it superior to any he had enjoyed since leaving Cincinnati.
Now, as he busied himself with its preparation, he was giddy with anticipation. He chopped several pounds of sirloin and sauteed it with bacon fat in a large kettle. When the meat was browned he added two quarts of tomatoes, some diced onions and more than a dozen garlic cloves. While the mixture simmered he worked on the potatoes and carrots. His years as a restaurateur left him unable to work with small portions. It was just as well: Tom Kishnell had a healthy appetite. He could eat more than four men, and it never hurt to allow for the invariable arrival of other beggarly guests. Such meals cut heavily into Goodsel's dwindling stores, but he was a culinary artist and could work no other way.
"Lord, I've been catching whiffs of your cooking all afternoon, Mr. Munson," Tom Kishnell said, pulling a stump up to the cookfire. "My stomach's been telling me to get over here, but the colonel kept me doing for him. I thought he'd never let me go."
Tom wore a soiled uniform, but his hands were clean and his face freshly scrubbed. He had even made a half-hearted attempt to shave the splotchy growth he'd been cultivating on his chin. His tarnished bugle was attached to a strap he wore across his chest. He never went anywhere that he didn't take his bugle, and told Goodsel he felt naked without it.
"You can smell your cooking all over this valley," Tom said. "Likely will attract every Snake Indian in the country. We'll be beating them off before long."
A few Shoshoni were beginning to arrive in the area. They wintered near the fort. Supposedly, they came to trade skins, but the Shoshoni were not known for their trapping abilities and since the Hudson's Bay Company had pulled out there was very little enterprise going on anyway. Tom was uneasy around Indians, though he knew the Shoshoni weren't near as bad as their friends the Bannock.
"Well, here my boy, let's enjoy a little wine before any other guests arrive," Goodsel said.
He didn't take the Indian threat as seriously as Tom. The boy had yet to meet a hostile Indian, but he'd spent the summer at Fort Hall and heard too many inflated tales from emigrants and soldiers alike. If all the stories of Indian atrocities were true, no one would ever make it to Oregon alive. Goodsel felt certain the few tales based in fact could largely be attributed to white stupidity. He supposed there were rare cases where some poor redman just got fed up with white folks moving across his lands, destroying the grass and killing off the game. Probably thought by taking a few scalps he could change the course of history. But the Indians had already lost, far as Goodsel could tell.
He carried some guilt, knowing he had a part in destroying a people's way of life. He liked to think it was the reason he had delayed the trip for so long. But he knew the settlement of the west was inevitable and the defeat of the Indian certain. Fear was the real reason he had put off such an adventure for so long. Now, at the age of 78, there was little left to lose. He had come to believe if he didn't do something he would die of stagnation. Instead of sitting around, watching his friends die off, wondering when his turn would come, Goodsel had decided to go off to Oregon and plant a vineyard. Though he knew he might never taste the wine, he thought it was better to die living. Besides, it was 1860. Folks had been traveling the Oregon Trail for over twenty years. There were settlements and forts and army escorts pretty much the entire route. The journey was not as dangerous, nor as difficult, as it had once been.
The loss of his wagon was a hardship Goodsel hadn't expected to endure; if Tom Kishnell's pessimistic predictions were true it was too late in the season for another train to come along and rescue him. He didn't like the prospect of wintering at Fort Hellhole and spent large portions of his day brooding over the possibility. The soldiers had assured him he could return to Camp Floyd with them, open an eatery and get rich. But he was already well-fixed and the idea of running another restaurant was irksome. He had his mind set on a vineyard. He knew very little about the soil of the Willamette Valley, except that it was said to be fertile. That didn't necessarily avail it to grape growing, but what he had been told of the climate sounded favorable. To his way of thinking weather was more important than soil. The earth could be worked with and improved, but a climate could not be changed.
Tom took the goblet of wine Goodsel offered. He felt a compulsion to gulp it down as he did the swill passed around the fort. Mr. Munson had taught him to take little sips of the fancy French wine, to savor its taste and to appreciate something Mr. Munson called bouquet. Tom wasn't entirely certain what the old man was talking about, but the wine tasted good. He thought it would taste just as good going down fast, which was what he most wanted to do - drink it down, then drink some more and feel dizzy. He knew he would get a lecture if he did and he wished to be spared the ordeal, so he sipped as he'd been taught.
It puzzled Tom how Mr. Munson could be so particular about his person, and so fussy about food and drink, yet be so lackadaisical in regard to everything else. His clothes were those of a gentleman, always neat and fresh; his food was the finest Tom had ever eaten. But his camp was a mess.
There were dirty pots and pans everywhere. Most were charred and misshapen from the fire. Mr. Munson planned to salvage them because they were copper and imported from Europe. He said copper was the only metal he would do his cooking in.
A broken mirror was propped against a burned table. Clothes hung from the willows and were sometimes lifted by the wind and blown about until Mr. Munson could chase them down. There were strange cooking instruments, with applications Tom could only imagine. Busted wine crates in various stages of repair were scattered in the grass; their contents having been stashed in a cool place to avoid extremes of temperature and hidden from what Mr. Munson called "the drunken gluttons of Fort Hellhole." Between camp and the river were a number of oak barrels in which hundreds of grape seedlings were soaking. And the old man intended to cart everything to Oregon. How he was going to accomplish this without a wagon was the subject of much debate back at the Army encampment.
Perhaps the saddest sight of all was the tent Mr. Munson had tried to construct from his tattered wagon sheet. It offered little shelter and mostly just flapped in the wind.
"Chaffee won't be showing up tonight. He took off with three others this morning," Tom said. "Saw them riding out about the time I spotted the goat."
"The rats are leaving the ship, ey?" Goodsel said, draining the last of the Margaux into his glass. "Can't say I'm too surprised, what with all his dissatisfactions. He wasn't well suited to army life."
Chaffee had joined them for dinner on two occasions; both times he had complained of conditions at the encampment. There were no unattached females. Tents were cramped and unsanitary. The pallets they slept on were filthy and infested with bugs. The food was bad.
Goodsel had commiserated with Chaffee about the food, but he could muster little sympathy for him over the sleeping arrangements. He himself was bedded on the hard ground, with only a make-shift bivouac to protect him from the elements. The scarcity of women hardly presented a problem for Goodsel. There were times he thought a woman could be a comfort, but his needs were not as keen as the young soldier's. At Goodsel's age it was enough to be infrequently stirred. The initial titillation brought on by the cant of a hip or the softness of a feminine voice seemed to be as far as Goodsel's interests went. Time had diminished the desire for much more.
"I think he was about to get shot. Word has it he was diddling the captain's wife," Tom said.
"And the captain wished to seek satisfaction?"
"Naw. The way I heard it, the colonel's wife was the one gunning for him," Tom said flatly. "Seems Chaffee had dumped her for the younger woman."
"Oh, the foolhardiness of youth. He has yet to learn that women are like wine; they grow better with age. Or at least that's true to a point," Goodsel said, stretching out on the ground near the fire. "Then they turn to vinegar."
Tom was pondering the fermentation of women when he noticed a rider coming in from the east. It looked like the French scout who had been sent to meet the patrol looking for late travelers. The rider headed past the trading post on toward the Portneuf encampment, then suddenly wheeled his horse and rode straight for Mr. Munson's camp. He had evidently picked up the cooking scents and was coming to beg a meal.
Goodsel, lulled by the fire and the wine, had dozed off. His rheumatism had been kicking up and the heat was soothing. He came awake at the sound of an approaching horse. When he saw the Frenchman he sat up with interest. "I hope to hell you bring good news," he said, rolling onto his hands and knees so he could lift himself to a standing position.
"Ah, that I do monsieur," the Frenchman said, frowning at the empty wine bottle Goodsel had tossed aside. He crossed his arms and offered no further information.
"Well, maybe some of your native nectar will loosen your tongue," Goodsel said, creaking to his feet. He wished people didn't have to be coaxed into everything. He had hoped to get through the evening without having to open another bottle. At this rate he'd arrive in Oregon with nothing to hold him over until he was producing his own.
The scout tossed his Springfield to Tom and stepped off his spotted Indian pony. "Yes, and perhaps then I will tell you of the little train which will arrive this very evening," he said.
Chapter Two
When the dog fight woke Emeline Trimble from her nap she knew right off what had happened. That flat-faced dog of George Myers' had come nosing for scraps, and Christy's little shepherd's dog had gone for him. A purely ignorant thing for Bo to do, considering how the bulldog always beat him.
The snarling had jarred Emeline from a dream. She couldn't recall exactly what it was about, but she had been in a cool place, free from the torment of bugs. While she was trying to recapture the dream a buffalo gnat swarmed her face and threatened to bite. She swatted at it, missed, then tried to brush her hair from her face. Sweat held it fast. It was irritating to be so vividly reminded of where she was.
She had been drowsing under an unusually tall sage bush she was fortunate enough to spot when the wagons pulled up for their nooning. Normally, her vision wasn't that keen, but the bush's size made it the principal feature in a landscape sparse enough to sometimes bring her to tears for want of a respectable shade tree. It was the tallest object on the plain, though Emeline herself stood a head above it.
But she was tall for a thirteen-year-old; as the sage was tall for its kind. Dry and twisted and bent, it seemed so troubled by the elements she wondered how the bush had grown to be such a giant. What made it keep growing when everything else around it was dead? She had wondered the same about herself on occasion, when life seemed particularly hard. After her pa died Emeline had thought then she would stop growing. She didn't though. All winter she had to wear shoes that were too small. There was no money for new ones. Her feet froze and still she grew. By spring none of her dresses fit. She wore an old thing of her mother's. It was too big and so thread-bare the boys could see through it. They teased her about it clear to summer.
She pitied the sage's tormented past, but was glad like herself it had endured. Presently its sour-scented leaves were providing some relief from a mean afternoon sun. By Emeline's estimate, the sage and its promise of shade had caused her to venture a half mile or more from the main group of movers. Back home it would have seemed a long hike, but un the vastness of the prairie it was actually no distance at all.
Resting with her head on a matt of dried grass, she tried once more to return to her dream. Sleep would not come; sound traveled too well across the empty plain. The dog fight went on and Bo's yelping told of a one-sided battle. She heard the men cursing, women and children screaming - as if they were being attacked by wolves, not merely observing a dog fight. In the commotion someone took to banging pots together. The dogs kept at it.
The crack of a bullwhip finally brought silence. Elijah Utter was a powerful man and could snap a whip like no other bull-whacker on the train. Yet it was not his strength that terrified; it was his intent. While most men used their whips to threaten their stock, Elijah used his to punish. Emeline had seen him draw blood from the oxen on many occasions. She had no doubt he would do the same to any other beast that crossed him. Bo and the bulldog had no doubts either. Their snarling ceased immediately.
Emeline stood and stretched, then walked from the shade of the sage into the sun. Her favorite time of day was ruined. Nooning was her best opportunity to get free of the Utter Brood: three step-brothers and three step-sisters she inherited when her mother had exercised the poor judgment to marry Elijah Utter. Though the mid-day breaks were becoming less leisurely since Elijah had taken a more avid interest in getting to Oregon, it was still the only time Emeline wasn't burdened with chores. She didn't have to cook or clean up afterwards. Everyone made do with hard biscuits, cold meat, if there was any, and, when Emeline's mother was feeling generous, a piece of dried fruit. Unlike evening time, Emeline didn't have milking to do, nor was she required to unload the wagon, herd stock or look after the baby that had come a mere six months after Elijah and her mother were wed - further proof of her mother's faulty judgment.
As soon as the oxen were unyoked, it was Emeline's habit to take her dinner and find some solitude in which to enjoy it.
"Fanny, what's that girl do out there all by herself?" Elijah often asked.
"Just thinking, I reckon," Emeline's mother would reply.
"Can't she think here with us?" Elijah asked. "She can think right here if she wants, won't any of us stop her. Isn't this prairie empty and lonesome enough without having to go off by herself?"
Elijah had no appreciation for peace and quiet. A wheelwright, his days were spent with hammer and anvil, pounding and shaping iron. That is if he could fit the work into his talking schedule. At night he had all those kids, each one trying to out talk the other. The Utter household was known for talk. Folks back in Walworth County feared being trapped in one of their swollen conversations like they feared the fever. Emeline thought it the cause of Elijah's money problems. People took their business elsewhere to avoid listening to another of his stories, which they had no doubt heard a hundred times before. She could not see how moving to a place called Oregon would change anything.
How Elijah expected her to think with all those babbling Utters around was beyond Emeline's comprehension. Christy, her only blood brother, thought the Utters were about as entertaining as the traveling show their father had taken them to right before he caught sick. Libbie, Emeline's one real sister, liked them too; but she'd been kicked in the head by a mule. Her opinions could not be considered reliable. At least with the Utters around Libbie always had company and the task of looking after her no longer fell so heavily on Emeline. It was the one advantage Emeline could name that had come about since the Utters entered her life.
Surprisingly, this time it wasn't an Utter but George Myers who had spoiled her solitude. That bulldog of his didn't need the food. He was as fleshy as the rest of the Myers family. For him, stealing food was sport. For Bo, it was a matter of survival. In recent weeks precious little nourishment had come Bo's way.
Elijah had only allowed Christy to bring the dog along to serve as a guardian and stock herder. When Bo proved incompetent at both, Elijah decided the dog was not earning his keep and issued orders that Bo was not to be fed. For over a month Bo had relied on what he could hunt for himself, and the little Christy and Emeline could sneak from their own limited rations. Lucky for Bo he was a better hunter than he was a herder.
They were hiding behind a clump of bunch grass. Christy was bawling. Bo was whining and licking his wounds.
"Looks like Bo's never gonna learn to do anything but root out barking squirrels," Emeline said.
"He's the best dog I ever had in my whole entire life," Christy sobbed.
"He's the only dog you ever had and he ain't much of a fighter," Emeline said. "You'd think he would figure that out and stay away from that bulldog."
"It wasn't Bo's fault."
"I know," Emeline said. "Let's see if we can patch him up."
Bo looked like someone had taken a meat cleaver to him. Part of an ear was gone and his face was so caked with blood it was hard to tell what else might be missing. There was a flap of hide the size of a man's hand hanging from his neck. Emeline could see the muscles underneath it quivering. Bo looked bad, but she had seen worse hurt animals, and, unlike people, they always seemed to heal. Bo was a homely creature; splay footed in front and cow-hocked in the rear, one ear flopped and the other stood up. She couldn't tell just yet which ear he'd lost; the limp one or the stiff one, but it wasn't going to spoil his looks either way.
The wounds didn't concern Emeline as much as Bo's foreleg. It was cocked at an odd angle and surely broken. Though it too would probably heal, she feared until it did Bo would not be able to keep up with the train, much less resume hunting. Elijah wouldn't let him ride in the wagon, which most likely meant Bo would be left behind to starve.
She kept the thought to herself and told Christy to fetch some wood for a brace. He quit crying as soon as he had something to do himself and quickly returned with sagebrush twigs from which they fashioned splints. Emeline tore strips from her apron and used them to secure Bo's leg. Then she tied a piece around his neck to hold the flap of hide in place. It was all she knew to do for him.
As soon as Emeline finished with him, Bo started struggling to get up. He yelped, fell back down, then tried to raise himself again. Emeline thought of the times Elijah had expounded on the stupidity of animals; how they couldn't remember the past or think to the future. Yet it was clear Bo remembered what had happened to him, and understood if he couldn't get up and follow the train he had no future. The splint made it so he could only get about halfway up before he'd loose his balance and fall over. It seemed to cause him a great deal of pain, but the fear of being left behind was worse. Bo kept trying until he wore out, fell back into the dirt and lay still. Only his eyes moved; the whites flashing up at Christy, pleading for some remedy.
"There ought to be a surgeon at Fort Hall," Christy said, gently lifting Bo in his arms. "I can carry him that far."
The soldiers who had met them earlier in the day said the train would reach Fort Hall before dark. But sunset was still miles away and lugging Bo until then wasn't going to be easy. Once they reached the fort there would still be Elijah to contend with. He was just cruel enough to keep Christy doing chores, not allow him to find help for Bo. Even if Christy managed to get away, the surgeon himself could be another problem. He might not treat dogs at all, especially one as pathetic as Bo. The obstacles didn't seem to concern Christy, who often failed to realize the limitations of being an eleven-year-old boy.
Christy was always reaching for something - something just beyond him. It kept him on the edge of trouble. Emeline wore scars from one time shortly after their father's passing when Christy reached too far. He was the sole surviving male in the family and thought it his duty to chop wood for the supper fire. Their mother had hid the ax, fearing Christy might hurt himself. The recent loss of her husband, Emeline's blind eye and the fact that her other daughter was a muddlehead, made Fanny cautious. She wasn't taking any chances with her only son.
Christy waited until their mother was away from the house to search out the ax. It wasn't hard to find: Fanny Trimble hid everything under her bed. Emeline was down at the barn milking Josey when she heard the chopping. She left the cow chewing corn and ran for the house. As the oldest, she was in charge when her mother wasn't around. If anything happened to Christy it would be Emeline's fault and Uncle Uriah would whip her good.
Christy refused to give up the ax. When Emeline grabbed for it, he jerked away, slipped and fell backwards. The ax went up in the air and came down on the splitting block. Unfortunately, Emeline had put her left hand there to catch her balance. The ax was sharp. It severed her big finger like it did chicken heads on butcher day. Her mother and Uncle Uriah showed up in time to haul her to the doctor. Christy got the whipping that time.
It took a year for her hand to heal and left such ugly scars that even now when Emeline was in the company of strangers she hid her hand under her apron. Its disfigurement caused her more shame than her cloudy eye. Still, she bore Christy no grudge. He had only been reaching again; stretching to be a man. He hadn't intended to harm her and was haunted by his carelessness. He never spoke of it, yet there were times Emeline caught him staring at her hand. She knew he was punishing himself. It was the same look her father had given her after his hammer slipped and sent that nail into her eye.
Elijah talked to George Myers about his bulldog and how the animal had to be brought under control. Mr. Myers nodded, as if he were listening. He fooled Elijah, not Emeline. She saw Mr. Myers' eyes glass up when Elijah started on a tale about a man he knew who had a dog that pulled a cart and hauled milk to town all on his own. After selling the milk, the dog carried the money home in his mouth. Emeline couldn't see what it had to do with Mr. Myers' dog being a bully, or how it fit into Elijah's theory that all animals were dumb. Here he was talking about a dog that was smart enough to manage a business better than Elijah himself. Whatever point Elijah had tried to make was completely lost. All he served to do was get everyone telling dog stories. No one seemed to care about Bo, or notice that the bulldog had again wandered off in search of mischief.
When Elijah exhausted the subject of dogs, he started on mules. They might have been there until dark if one of the soldiers hadn't spoke up.
"At this rate you might just as well plan on wintering right here," the soldier said.
At that the oxen were yoked, the teams were hitched and the wagons made their way onto the Snake River Plain. The soldier and thirty other dragoons, returning from a patrol of the Lander Road, lead the way. The dust their horses kicked up billowed like low thunder clouds. Emeline would have welcomed rain, even if it meant trudging through knee-deep mud as they had near Fort Kearny. But the sky was clear and the sun as unforgiving as the dust. Emeline moistened her cracked lips and before she could get her tongue back in her mouth they were dry again.
Because of a weak constitution Libbie was permitted to ride in the wagon with Emeline's mother and the baby. The rest of the children were required to walk and help herd the loose stock. It was a matter of great debate over which was harder on the body; walking or riding. Emeline would have liked a chance to compare. Elijah had not permitted any of the children to ride since they began the journey. Now she and Christy had the added burden of Bo.
They took turns packing the dog. Bo whimpered and occasionally let out a yelp when they stepped wrong. Other than that he was quiet and generally compliant. To their surprise, Elijah said nothing. It would have been like him to order Bo left behind. Perhaps he knew it meant leaving Christy as well. Not that Emeline thought Elijah cared much for her brother, but surely he knew how loosing Christy would affect Fanny. He had probably also taken into consideration the loss of Christy's free labor and decided to let Bo remain.
Once the train was under way, Elijah fell into the habit he had kept for 1200 miles, directing the oxen with a constant chatter that seemed to lull them to sleep. Then, when their drowsing slowed their progress Elijah would be required to wake them with his whip. Emeline often thought the oxen would travel better if Elijah just shut up.
To make the situation worse, Elijah thought as leader of the train it was his place to bring up the rear. It was contrary to Emeline's idea of leadership and meant she and the rest of the Utters choked down the worst of the dust. She felt sure their tail-end position had more to do with Elijah's sleepy oxen than it did with his sense of responsibility.
Elijah was sold on oxen. Emeline had heard his speech on their virtues often enough to have committed it to memory. "You can't find a more loyal beast," he was fond of saying before engaging in debate with anyone foolish enough to dispute him. His favorite argument, that Indians were less interested in oxen than other livestock, had proved meaningless. What few Indians they had encountered appeared about as complacent as the oxen Elijah so admired.
Emeline shifted Bo in her arms and took solace in the fact the dust had improved, since two thirds of the train split off for California. Their departure had resulted in Elijah being elected captain, and though she had no confidence in his leadership, she liked having less people around.
Few others shared her opinion. They felt their smaller number made the train more vulnerable to Indians and chose Elijah to lead because of his forceful nature. Elijah's first decision had been to stay with the California train as long as possible. He didn't take the new Lander Cutoff, and had instead continued on to Soda Springs with the Californians. Emeline had heard the soldiers comment on this decision when they met the train that morning. They said the Lander route was shorter and might have brought them into Fort Hall with another Oregon bound train a few days earlier. Now it was uncertain whether the train would still be waiting at the fort.
"We should have gone on down to California," Emeline said, passing Bo to Mary Utter. She had offered to help carry him.
Mary normally avoided exertion, but Emeline didn't question the apparent kindness. She was glad for the relief. Bo whimpered while Mary adjusted him, then settled in her arms.
"Only soiled doves, gamblers and those of questionable character go there," Mary said. At twenty, she was the eldest Utter and felt it her duty to guide the moral development of her younger siblings, especially the Trimble's. They had been without the discipline of a father for so long and reliant only on Fanny - a kind but weak-willed woman - that they were difficult to manage. "Oregon's a place of virtue. We'll get us a fine piece of ground and live among respectable folks in a great green valley. And you and me and Abbey and Ida will all marry good men, raise fine families and prosper."
"What about Libbie?" Emeline asked.
"We'll find someone for her too," Mary said. Libbie was weak and addled, yet thinking about it, she was more likely to find a man than poor Emeline. With Emeline's hideous hand, her white eye and boy-like ways, she would not be well sought after.
"This dog's heavier than he looks. I wish Pa would let us put him in the wagon," Mary added.
"I'm afraid to ask," Emeline said. "If he gets to thinking about it, he might just tell us to leave Bo behind."
"Maybe I oughta run ahead to Paul Myers and see if he'll let me put this poor dog in his wagon," Mary said. "He's got nobody. Bet he gets lonesome driving all by himself."
Emeline should have known Mary's offer to help with Bo was as self-serving as most of her actions. Mary worked off and on for the Myers family, cooking, doing laundry and looking after their kids. Everyone knew she had eyes for Paul, though it was said he had a wife and several children waiting back home. Mary was so desperate to find a man she would take one that was already claimed, and was willing to use a mangled dog to get at him.
"Could be he's feeling bad about his brother's damn dog," Emeline said, encouraging Mary for Bo's sake.
"Emeline, watch your mouth. You can't go around talking like that. It ain't at all lady-like," Mary said. She squinted through the dust and spotted Paul Myers' wagon. The opposite of his brother, Paul was a tall, handsome man, known for a good nature and keeping his opinions to himself. He had a fine four-hitch team of mules and was admired for his driving skills. "Might be I'll have to ride with him to look after this poor animal."
"He'll be tickled to have a pretty girl sitting next to him." Emeline said. She hardly considered Mary pretty, but flattery was always a good tactic with her. Mary resembled Elijah too much to be comely. She had his course black hair, his dark eyes and the same lump of fat that formed a second chin. Elijah's was somewhat hidden by his beard, but Mary's extra chin hung there for all to see. It was particularly noticeable when she blew up her chest, lifted her shoulders and tucked her head, as she was prone to do before haranguing someone.
Mary smoothed her hair and paraded ahead. Bo rested his head on her shoulder and looked back at Emeline in puzzlement. When he realized he was being carted away he started to squirm around looking for Christy. Mary squeezed him until he yelped and held her course. When she reached Paul's wagon he pulled up his team and spoke to her for a moment. Then she passed Bo up and climbed aboard herself.
Emeline stopped and waited for Christy. He was in the rear herding stock and was pleased to hear of Bo's good fortune.
"Sure was kind of Mary," Christy said. "She don't even like dogs."
