The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (9 page)

“It’s nothing, only a feeling. My husband won’t even come out of our wagon since they joined us, not until nightfall.’’ She pulled herself free. “I really must go now.’’

Maggie watched the woman scurry back to her own fire like a frightened sparrow. She returned to her pemmican, but the anger was now replaced by more questions.

They finally made it to South Pass ten days after the Fourth of July. It had only been an additional hundred miles, but the trail had been on a steady incline, an almost imperceptible grade that the legs of oxen and travellers alike felt as a new strain. The pass itself was unprepossessing, but its achievement was not. The cooler air at the top marked the dividing point of the continent. It was the halfway point of the trip, from whence waters would flow either to the Atlantic or the Pacific. It also marked the beginning of the Oregon country.

The descent down was steeper. Oxen had to be held back, brakes applied to wagons. When they finally reached the other side a halt was called near an unusual sight.

It was a fairly permanent camp of westerners, tents set up neatly, mules fattening in comfort. Maggie tried to ignore her natural curiosity and set in with her regular evening duties. Before long, Sam and Gwen came around with offerings of sagebrush and scrubwood for the fire.

“It looks like more wormwood and sand to me,’’ muttered Gwen of the new side of the continent.

Maggie shrugged and looked towards the grazing mules of the strangers. “Aren’t you two off to see what that’s all about? Everyone else is.’’

Sam sank down on a rock. “No need. It’s that Hastings what Bridger warned us about. Already up on a soapbox preachin’ about his
golden shore
to any what’ll listen. Ain’t nobody talkin’ me into anything but what I come for.’’

Maggie knit her brows. “Could there be truth in what he says?’’

“Now don’t you start up,’’ chided Gwen. “The Donner people have already had too much to say. Then there’s Josh Chandler letting everything slide as if he’s lost all interest in leading his train, and the Reverend Winslow sneaking up behind Chandler’s back preaching for a new leader like he’s just gotten tapped for the office by heaven.’’ Gwen ground to a halt herself. “It seems as if everything’s fallen apart since the Fourth.’’

Maggie inwardly agreed, but her mind focused on the preacher. “I thought Winslow had been keeping to his wagon.’’

“He was at that,’’ threw in Sam. “He was even starting a rumor he might be down with the typhoid. Had some folks getting mighty tetchy on the subject. Ain’t
nobody
from the Donner Party dare go near him or his family. Then he up and showed himself in public light this afternoon. It was a plumb quick cure. He looked right rested up, he did, with a glint in his eyes like he’d discovered the answer to all his problems. That’s when he started in seekin’ votes for himself.’’

Gwen had had enough of Winslow. She started in again.

“Even our suppers aren’t as they used to be, especially with you and Johnny~’’ she stopped when Sam gave her a poke.

Gwen threw Sam a look, but stubbornly continued. “I know I oughtn’t say anything. It’s your own business, after all. But I do think he’s ready to be forgiven. And if you don’t do it soon he’ll go looking for more permanent solace elsewhere. And it won’t be among the party of the Chandler train! After all, if he’d only wanted to help widows he could’ve taken a stronger interest in Grandma Richman a long time past.
She
hasn’t got a hired drover.’’

Sam took Gwen’s arm none too gently. “Come along, Gwen. We could do with a walk afore the meal.’’

She shook him off. “I’ve been walking all day, Sam. I haven’t got another step in me.
You
may take a walk.’’

Sam shrugged and left the ladies, but their privacy was not ordained, which was a modest comfort to Maggie. She really didn’t need to have lectures on Annabelle Lorcum from her best friend.

Hazel came next, still looking poorly. Maggie put her husband’s indiscretions out of her mind.

“You’re not showing yet. Do you feel anything?’’

Hazel shook her head miserably. “Just some new pains. Kind of like shooting, right up my legs.’’

Maggie was worried. “Has there been any blood?’’

“Not yet.’’

“Then it should be all right.’’

Hazel broke down into her handkerchief. “Oh, I surely hope so. With all this dust floating around I can’t but think the poor baby is strangling inside, gasping for air the way the girls do sometimes . . .’’

Maggie placed a comforting arm on Hazel’s shoulder. “Are you wearing a damp handkerchief around your nose and mouth during the worst of the dust storms?’’

Hazel nodded yes.

“That’s about all to be done. That and drinking as much milk and water as you can manage. Why don’t you go and try to sponge yourself down before supper time. You can send baby Irene over with the girls. I’ll look after her while you rest.’’

Hazel wiped her eyes and struggled up. “Thank you for your kindnesses, Maggie. I don’t know what I’d do without the support of my friends.’’

Gwen sighed heavily as Hazel disappeared. “That woman’s making a mighty big fuss over this pregnancy. Why, one of those women on the Donner train gave birth last night, and was around showing off the infant this morning.’’

“Then she was blessed, Gwen. You haven’t had a child yet, or you’d know the feeling. Every woman takes to it differently. Hazel’s not a beginner in the birthing business. If she says things don’t feel right, she knows what she’s talking about. I was terribly weak with Charlotte. I had to stay abed a few of the early months to hold her. Being pregnant’s hard enough when you’re settled down in one place. On the trail like this I’d rather not think about it.’’

Neither of them had to, for the children, hordes of them, arrived. There were Maggie’s own, the Kreller’s and about a half dozen Richmans. They looked hot and tired and fractious, and their suppers wouldn’t be ready for much longer than they were willing to wait. Maggie sighed and started organizing.

“All right. Line up for the water barrel, all of you!’’ She turned to Gwen. “You know where our dried apricots and prunes are stored. Bring out enough for two each, please? When children are hungry, they’re hungry.’’

Soon the youngsters were queued up just like in a little school, splashing water over their fronts, stuffing fruit into their mouths. Maggie caught Jeremiah Winslow stealing into the group and snuck him an extra apricot. He deserved it for defying his father so blatantly. She received a cherubic smile for her efforts.

Refreshed, the youngsters were sent to admire Lansford Hastings’s mules. All except the babies. Mules and toddlers didn’t go well together. Charlotte and Irene Maggie tethered to each other with a rope attached to the nearest wagon, and gave them Charlotte’s soft dolls to chew on so they wouldn’t be tempted to stuff too much sand into their mouths.

Maggie finally turned her attention back to Gwen and the dinner. “You were saying?’’

Gwen laughed. “Sure you didn’t run an orphanage back East? Irish and I were in one after our parents died. But only for a year, thank God. They didn’t have any dried apricots and they didn’t have any smiles, but the lines were always there.’’

Maggie was surprised. “I thought you said you’d raised Irish yourself. How did you get out of the orphanage?’’

Gwen grinned mischievously. “We escaped. We planned it all out together. Irish hated the place even more than I. One night we just snuck out of our beds and started walking.’’

“And they didn’t go after you?’’

Gwen shrugged. “They may have tried. But not too hard. There wasn’t any dearth of orphans, so I guess they really didn’t need us. That’s when I got myself apprenticed to a seamstress, and Irish to a potter. When we’d saved up enough coins we got our own room in a tenement and set up housekeeping. The rooms got bigger over the years, but I wasn’t sorry to leave the smell of boiled cabbage behind when Irish got it into his head to change it all and leave.’’

Gwen peeked into the pot Maggie was stirring. “This must be the first time in months I actually wish I could smell boiled cabbage cooking again.’’

“I’ve been remembering the spare ribs and noodles we used to eat in our Cincinnati boarding house, Gwen. You could get all the ribs you wanted~free for the taking~from the slaughter houses. And potatoes and sauerkraut were cheap. Incredibly cheap, thinking about it.’’

“Don’t forget the dill pickles,’’ added a strong, low voice.

They looked up. Johnny was back from God knows where. Hastings’s camp? Annabelle’s lair? He threw an armload of sagebrush near to the fire and squatted next to Maggie, one hand held behind his back.

“Since I obviously cannot have a pickle, why don’t you describe what culinary delight is in store for us tonight?’’

“Cornmeal mush. Sprinkled with jerky and fried with the last of our buffalo lard.’’

“Imaginative.’’

“I thought so.’’ Then she closed her mouth. They weren’t talking, after all.

Johnny tried again. “Hastings gives a good talk. Almost good enough to put me off of Oregon. Certainly good enough to confuse many.’’

“More chin-high clover in California, Johnny?’’ Maggie couldn’t resist.

“Maybe. But nothing like this.’’ He pulled the hand from behind his back and presented his wife with a yellow cactus flower. It was frail, yet lovely, the fleeting, unexpected blossom of the desert. She put out her hand to accept the offering, a small smile forming on her face, then pulled back.

“It would go better with the widow’s black hair, wouldn’t it?’’

Johnny growled in frustration and threw the flower into the fire. They both watched it shrivel into ashes. He got up.

“I’m not sure what it is you’re wanting from me, Meg. But I’m beginning to believe whatever it is, I can’t be giving it.’’

Maggie, close to tears, half rose after him, then stopped. She looked toward Gwen, but her friend was backing away to safer territory. She’d already expressed herself, all too clearly, on the subject. Why was she doing this to herself? Why was she doing it to Johnny? Hadn’t he proven his love for her too many times already? Hadn’t he killed a man for her? What did she want from him?

That was the problem. Maggie didn’t know.
Lord help me, because I can’t seem to help myself anymore.
Her life had become a confusion of sand and wind and hunger and hurt and crying babies.
Crying babies
.

Charlotte and Irene had tied themselves into knots with their rope tether. Maggie got up to untangle and comfort them.

They set off the next day for the Dry Sandy. Hastings had personally visited each campfire during the evening. The thin, youthfully blond man had a shifty look in his eyes, the look Maggie had seen before in snake-oil salesmen. He was leaving no stone unturned to promote his California route, emphasizing not only the warmth and luxuriousness of his chosen land, but also the fact that it would cut off an entire month from the end of the trip.

The latter factor was more tempting than all the milk and honey he could describe. He seemed to have talked the Donner Party into his scheme, and promised everyone he’d stick around the Pass a week or two longer. He’d catch up with the two groups at Fort Bridger and personally guide the California bound on his cutoff past the Great Salt Lake.

The Chandler party was in a turmoil of conflicting opinions. It wasn’t only over the California business, either. Some of the men were pushing for California now, it was true, but there was further contention about whether to go with the Sublette Cutoff when they came to the Parting of the Ways in a day or two. The cutoff saved fifty miles by going through the Little Colorado Desert and avoiding Fort Bridger. It also traversed fifty waterless miles of territory. Was it worth pushing the stock to save those extra miles?

Johnny had studied his own animals and pronounced a firm no. He couldn’t have made that decision back in April. He’d known little about oxen then. Months on the trail had made him a fast learner, an expert. Maggie may not have agreed with her husband on personal matters, but she fervently went along with this particular decision. Most of the wives would have agreed, but few of them were given a say in the decision.

When Chandler was pressed for his opinion on the new options he merely mumbled into his beard. His wife and younger daughters were suffering badly from the constant sand and swirling dust. Their weak lungs were worrying the man. He was ready and willing to give up his captaincy.

Electioneering began in earnest at the Parting of the Ways. The Donner Party had already made their decision, but its men came to yell suggestions and cajole the Chandler folks. It was entertainment, after all.

Maggie had several shocks that evening. The first was when she saw Winslow step onto the traces of his wagon, Bible in hand, to give a campaign speech for himself. She’d known he’d appointed himself to run~for reasons known only to himself~but she hadn’t realized the man had built up such a staunch following. Where had her mind been lately?

The dark night sky was lit only by fires and a lantern hanging from the wagon near to Winslow’s face. The light thus flickering onto his freshly shaven cheeks looked more like the fires of hell than heaven. Maggie shivered and pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders. She was glad the children were tucked into their beds.

Winslow stared at the crowd before beginning his speech. He was well satisfied with the decision he’d made. It had taken him almost a week of solitude in the wagon to come up with the idea, but the Lord hadn’t let him down. It was a perfect cover. He’d smelled something Mormon about the Donner train when it first pulled up at Independence Rock. He hadn’t had the freedom to find the one person or persons responsible for that feeling, but had grasped onto it, like a gospel truth. Whoever the Danites might be among them, they would never suspect someone willing to put his face before the public in this manner.

Completely satisfied, Winslow launched into his talk, carefully editing out any of the anti-Mormonisms that had peppered his former public appearances. His voice came full and rich from his throat. His years of practice speaking to his flocks would always serve him well. The voice was compelling. It was the words which gave pause.

Maggie tried to listen closely to the bits about Moses leading the chosen people over the desert for forty years, but her attention was diverted by a jostling nearby in the crowd. Her eyes wandered to pick up Gentry elbowing his way close. She cringed. She’d avoided the man like the plague since their meeting on the day following the Fourth. Now he seemed to be seeking her out. She knew not whether he was truly in pursuit of herself, like a more distasteful Red Eagle, or whether he was still searching for intelligence on their press, having failed in his attempts to bribe the information from an innocent child. She directed her eyes back to Winslow.

“ `Brethren’, wrote St. Paul, `if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness.’ Our camp has lost its heart and soul of late through such faults. Faults I pointed out back at Richman’s grave . . .’’