Where the Lost Wander(11)
“We might never come outa these woods, Winifred,” Pa grumbles to Ma. “Perhaps they send unsuspecting travelers into these parts to get them lost and rob them blind.”
Ma doesn’t respond but walks calmly, her arms wrapped around her bulging belly; she was the one to tell Pa about Mr. Lowry’s advice to use the upper ferry, and if she is worried, she doesn’t let on. But within an hour we indeed find ourselves, if a little more weary and wary than when we set out, at Duncan’s Ferry with nary a wagon in front of us. We are able to board both wagons, eight oxen, two mules, two cows, and eight people in a single trip. The Caldwells cross immediately after us with all their cattle and wagons as well. Both crossings are uneventful, much to Webb’s disappointment, and Pa has to take back some of the things he said, though he mutters that he’d rather wait in line for a week than ford that path again. Ma just pats his hand, but we are the first wagons in our company to arrive at the designated clearing at the head of the trail.
We missed the window the previous spring. Daniel’s death took the wind out of all our sails. So we waited and planned. Then Ma got pregnant, and it seemed as if maybe the journey would have to be postponed once more. We hoped the baby would come before the trek began, but it hasn’t, and the wagon company won’t wait. The baby could come anytime—Ma thinks she still has a week or two—but Ma insists we stick to the plan. And Pa always listens to Ma.
We wait all day for the wagons in our company to assemble. John Lowry is at the meeting site, along with our wagon master, Mr. Grant Abbott, a man who has been back and forth across the prairie “more times than he can remember,” though I suspect he could recall exactly how many if he wanted to. He worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company in the Rocky Mountains for a season but says he prefers people to the fur trade, and he comes highly recommended as a guide. Forty families have signed on with him for this journey, paying him to see them through to California as painlessly as possible, and he seems very proud of that fact. He is amiable enough, with a woolly gray mustache and hair that skims his shoulders. His tunic and leggings are fringed like those of a mountain man, and he wears beaded moccasins on his feet and a rifle slung across his back. He seems to know John Lowry well and introduces him as his nephew.
“John’s mother, Jennie, is my little sister. John will be with us until we reach Fort Kearny on the Platte,” Mr. Abbott says. “He speaks Injun too, in case we have any trouble with the Pawnee. The area along the Platte is Pawnee country. It’s Kanzas country too, though we’ll see more Kanzas in the Blue River valley. I don’t suspect we’ll have any trouble with any of ’em. They usually just want to trade . . . or beg. They like tobacco and cloth and anything shiny.”
It doesn’t make much sense to me, John Lowry’s mother being Grant Abbott’s sister. Grant Abbott may wear buckskin, but he’s as white and ruddy as Pa. I’ve seen John Lowry Sr. He’s white too, but the resemblance between them is there. Still, a resemblance doesn’t account for the way John Lowry looks. He’s tall like his father, with rangy shoulders and a long gait, but his skin is sun colored, and his hair is the color of black coffee. He keeps it mostly hidden beneath the brim of his gray felt hat, but I can see the inky edges that hug his neck and touch the tops of his ears. His features are cut from stone, hard lips and an uneven nose, sharp cheekbones and a squared-off chin, granite eyes and the straightest black brows I’ve ever seen. I can’t tell how old he is. He has a worn look around his eyes, but it’s not time, I don’t think. He’s a few years—or a decade—older than I am. Impossible to know. But I like looking at him. He has a face I’m going to draw.
Webb trots after him, asking to be introduced to his mules and the jack donkeys, and Will and Wyatt are quick to follow. He doesn’t seem to mind the company and answers all their questions and listens to their commentary. I want to join them, but there is work to do, and Ma is trying to do it, ignoring Pa when he insists she rest while she can.
Wagons start to arrive at the staging area near the trading post. Some folks have painted their names, slogans, or the places from which they hail on their canvas covers. Oregon or Bust; California Bound; Born in Boston, Bound for Oregon. The Weavers; The Farleys; The Clarkes; The Hughes. Pa decides we should paint our name too, and he writes May in dripping red letters along the sides. Ma isn’t happy with his handiwork.
“Good heavens, William. It looks like we’ve marked our wagons so the angel of death will pass us over.”
Every wagon is packed to the brim with supplies—beans and bacon and flour and lard. Barrels are strapped to the sides, and false bottoms are built into the main body of the wagon—the wagon box—to stow tools and possessions not needed during everyday travel. Pa has extra wheels and enough rope and chains to stretch cross country, along with saws and iron pulleys and a dozen other things I can’t name and don’t know how to use. Ma has her china stowed below, packed in straw and prayed over. We eat on tin—cups, plates, saucers—with iron spoons because they don’t break.
One woman has a table and chairs and a chest of drawers in the back of her wagon. She claims the furniture has been in her family for generations, and it made it across oceans, so why not across the plains? Some people have far more than they can use, far more than they need, and some don’t have nearly enough; some don’t even have shoes. It’s a motley assortment of fortune hunters and families, young and old. Like St. Joe, except most everyone is white. Everyone but John Lowry, but I’m not exactly sure what he is.