Chapter 8: The River

Joe and Tad, jackets buttoned and wool caps pulled down over their ears, were gathering buffalo chips for fuel. For the first part of their journey, wood had been theirs for the taking. But for the past ten days there had been very little, and Joe supposed that this was partly because there never had been very much in the first place and partly because emigrants preceding him had cut down what there was. Joe tried to put this vast prairie in a proper perspective.

The change in terrain had been gradual. No one day, or even the whole trip so far, had revealed any startling differences. The hills in Missouri were low and rolling and so was this country. But the Missouri hills had been forested, and with very few exceptions the only trees they’d found here had been growing along river or creek bottoms. Yet, each day had brought its own changes. But Joe had to think of the whole trip, and get the over-all picture, to place them correctly. When one traveled only twenty or thirty miles, each night’s camp seemed much like the one preceding it. But each had differed, and much more startling than any physical change in the country they’d traveled was the sense of going a great distance.

Tenney’s Crossing had been warm and friendly, with neighbors always at hand, and not until they reached Independence had they in any sense of the word felt alien. Going out of Independence, they’d passed homesteads and settlements and felt at home there. But here there was only the prairie, a vast thing that stretched on all sides. They were all alone, wholly dependent on their own resources, and with no one else to whom they might turn. It was, Joe felt, much like being suspended in space. He didn’t like the country and he was more than a little afraid of it. But he hadn’t mentioned his fears to Emma.

Buffalo chips in both hands, Tad put them in the sack Joe was carrying. Joe glanced at him but made no comment. Tad seemed to be looking for something, and sooner or later he would mention whatever he sought.

“How come?” he said finally. “How come, Pa?”

“How come what?”

“All this dry buffalo manure around and no buffalo.”

“I don’t know that myself,” Joe admitted.

“We’ve come a right smart ways without seein’ any, ain’t we?”

“We sure have.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see some?”

“Yup.”

“So would I. Do you think we’ll get all the way to Oregon without findin’ any?”

“I don’t know.”

“How far are we from Oregon?”

“A long ways. Now if you’ll stop asking questions, and start gathering buffalo chips, we might get enough.”

“Sure, Pa.”

Mike, who had adapted himself to wagon life, sniffed eagerly at a bunch of grass in which a jack rabbit had rested. Mike had had a wonderful time stalking rabbits and prairie chickens, though he hadn’t caught anything as yet, and Joe looked worriedly at the dog.

Perhaps Jake Favors had been doing something besides trying to hire a man who knew mules when he advised them to winter in Independence, for the Trail had been anything except easy. It was easy to stay on, of course, for all one had to do was follow the Platte River and the tracks of the wagons that had gone before. Or, at least, stay near the Platte. There must have been a great many emigrants this past season, for the grass was cropped short by their animals and in some places it hadn’t grown back. In all such places—the mules had to eat well if they were to work hard—it had been necessary to swerve to one side and find grazing. It wasn’t always easy because others had the same idea and that, Joe knew now, was one of the reasons why the Oregon Trail was several miles wide in some places.

However, though sometimes grass was hard to find, it could always be found and that was a minor problem. A major one was that they were far behind the schedule Joe had hoped to keep. It was just short of 700 miles between Independence and Laramie, and Joe had counted on making the trip in thirty-five days at the very most. However, they were already out thirty-two days and certainly they had a long way to go. Joe didn’t know just how far, for his calculations had been completely upset.

Even for the first two weeks out of Laramie, Joe had not been able to cover his hoped-for thirty miles a day. They’d been delayed by the necessity of finding grass for the stock. Then had come near disaster.

Joe had awakened one morning and turned over for another few minutes’ sleep, for by the look of things it couldn’t possibly be time to get up. The morning was almost as black as the night had been. Then Joe came awake with a start. As soon as he did so he knew that it was past the time for getting up and that they were facing a storm.

Heavy, black clouds covered the sky so deeply that the sun could find no crack to break through. Emma had come from the wagon to join Joe and for a few seconds they had stood near each other while each gave comfort to the other. They shared a weird and terrible feeling that they were really lost on the endless prairie whose ceiling was now an even more fierce plain of clouds. Then they hurriedly started a fire and cooked breakfast before the forthcoming rain made it impossible to do so.

They’d scarcely started when lightning flashed and thunder boomed in a wild and awful way. All about was space, with no sheltering trees or hills, and thunder filled that space. The clouds opened up and cold rain sluiced down. Joe was grateful for the double thickness of canvas on the wagon. Except for Tad, who still refused to ride, his family would be dry. A wetting wouldn’t hurt Tad as long as he kept moving, and if Joe had to put him there by main strength he would sleep in the wagon at night. But heavy rain turned the Trail into a quagmire.

From that moment, the movement of the wagon had become slow and torturing. Wheels sank halfway to the hubs. The mules strained and slipped as they sought a solid footing, and only Joe’s expert driving kept them on their feet. They had to go on because it was unthinkable to stop in this morass. There was no house, and as far as Joe could see, no material for building one. For two days following the rain they had to nibble at cold food because the soaked buffalo chips, the only fuel, would not burn. Their clothing and almost everything inside the wagon was mud-crusted and there was small use in cleaning anything because five minutes afterward it was sure to be muddy again. The cold wind following the rain was within itself evidence that this was bitter country where snow would lie deep.

Worst of all, their provisions were running low. Grandpa Seeley had advised him to load the wagon heavily with food, and Joe had followed the advice. Before leaving Independence he had bought more, but his family had always had hearty appetites and travel stimulated them. Joe had shot a few jack rabbits, which even Mike found difficult to chew, and a few prairie chickens which were delicious. But, though jack rabbits were numerous, everybody else who came this way must have been shooting prairie chickens, too. They were so wary that it was almost impossible to get a shot at one now.

Joe continued to pick up buffalo chips the while he continued to worry. They were so slowed by the mud that sometimes it seemed that they camped one night almost in sight of last night’s camp. Probably they traveled farther than that, though Joe estimated that they hadn’t covered more than eight miles any day they’d been in the mud. He’d been able to buy almost nothing at Fort Kearney; their commissary was low and the men there were already on short rations. They’d told him he had enough to last to Laramie, but they hadn’t known about bad travel conditions.

They filled the sack with buffalo chips, bent their heads against the cold north wind, and Joe quenched a rising uneasiness. Probably there would be no very deep snow for several weeks. But any snow at all would be sure to slow them up and they could afford no more delays. The thought of his children going hungry clutched at him with an almost physical pain. It was by no means certain that anyone else would come this way before spring again made for good travel conditions, and even if somebody did come the chances were good that they’d have nothing to spare. Tad spoke from the muffled depths of his jacket collar.

“Think it will snow, Pa?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

He had halted the wagon on a grassy knoll that offered good drainage and at least they’d be out of the mud tonight. The tethered mules and the cow were eagerly cropping grass. Emma’s chickens, that had come to regard the wagon as their real home, were scratching vigorously in the dirt. With night, they would go into their crate to roost. Emma and Barbara, who had refashioned two of Joe’s old pairs of trousers to fit them—articles of clothing neither would have dreamed of wearing near Tenney’s Crossing but which were practical here—were arranging their cook ware. They awaited only the buffalo chips.

“Here we are!” Joe sang out.

He plucked a handful of dry grass for tinder, arranged his fire, and lighted it with a sulphur match that he took from a corked bottle. The flames climbed hungrily through the grass and ate more slowly into the chips. Joe remembered the roaring wood fires they’d had back in Missouri, and he stirred uncomfortably. It was necessary to cross these plains before they could go to Oregon, and there was nothing anyone could do about them except cross. But Joe was just as happy that they were not going to live here. Grandpa Seeley had known what he was talking about when he spoke of the plains’ vast loneliness.

Emma looked wistfully at the fire. “I kind of miss a wood fire.”

“We’ll get some,” Joe promised. “There must be wood somewhere, and the mud can’t last forever. Soon as we get out of it we can travel a lot faster. Don’t you worry.”

Emma laughed, and Joe knew that it was a forced laugh. “I’m not a bit worried! I didn’t expect luxuries all the way.”

Tad, who had slipped away, darted back to the wagon. His eyes were big with excitement.

“Hey, Pa!”

“Yes?”

“There’s some animals just over the next knoll!”

Joe’s heart leaped. “What are they?”

“I dunno. They look sort of like deer, but they ain’t deer.”

Joe got his rifle and turned to Emma. “You and Bobby feed the youngsters and have your own supper, will you? Expect Tad and me when we get back.” To Tad he said, “Show me where they are!”

Tad tied Mike to the wagon wheel and led the way up the knoll. He slipped down the other side, and Joe noted with pride that he walked carefully. He avoided rustling grass and stones, anything at all that might make a noise. Joe reflected that, one day, Tad would be a wonderful hunter. Tad crawled up the opposite knoll as carefully as he had descended the first and stopped. He pointed.

“They’re just on the other side,” he whispered. “There’s four of ‘em.”

“Come on, son.”

They dropped to their hands and knees and crawled very slowly. Nearing the crest of the knoll, they wriggled on their bellies. With only their heads showing, they looked down the other side of the knoll. Tad whispered,

“There they are!”

The knoll sloped into a shallow gulley that was about three hundred yards long by two hundred wide. Joe saw the animals, a big buck with three does, and though he himself had never before seen any, he knew from the descriptions of people who had been west that they were pronghorns, or antelope. His practiced hunter’s eye told him that they were already suspicious; they had either seen Tad or else they had seen Joe and Tad. They were grazing nervously near the far end of the gully, hopelessly out of range.

“They were a lot closer before,” Tad whispered.

“Sh-h! Maybe they’ll come nearer!”

Joe lay perfectly still, trying desperately not even to wink an eye as he watched the antelope. By sheer force of will he yearned to draw them closer. One of them, just one, and his family would have enough food again. One of the does slashed at another with an angry hoof, and they drifted a little farther away. Joe began to worry. In another twenty minutes it would be too dark to shoot. He whispered,

“We have to do something!”

“Yes?”

“Do you know right where they are, Tad?”

“Sure.”

“Can you slip down this knoll, see if you can work around behind ‘em, and scare ‘em toward me?”

“Sure, Pa.”

Tad slipped away and Joe concentrated his fierce, yearning gaze on the antelope. He must not miss. They had to have one of the antelope, and the thought made him tense. Joe forced himself to relax so that he would be able to shoot more truly. Minute by minute, the night shadows lowered. The rifle’s sights were already beginning to blur when the antelope moved.

They sprang away suddenly, but instead of running toward Joe, they quartered across the gully. Knowing that they were still out of range, but wanting desperately to get one, Joe aimed at the running buck. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle belched red flame into the gathering twilight. But the antelope continued to run.

Joe stood up, sweating, and it was as though a heavy weight was suddenly upon his heart. He felt a little nauseated, and he wet dry lips with his tongue. It seemed, somehow, that he was guilty of a terrible and unforgivable sin. But even while he berated himself, Joe knew pride when Tad appeared where he should have been. The youngster had done his part exactly right. It was no fault of his if the antelope had run exactly wrong.

Tad panted up the knoll to join him. “Missed, huh?”

Joe said glumly, “I missed.”

“Oh well,” Tad remained cheerful, “they weren’t very big anyhow.”

They wandered back to the wagon. Emma, who had heard the shot, came running expectantly toward them.

“Missed,” Joe said, and he took refuge in Tad’s alibi. “They weren’t very big anyhow.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, and Joe thought he detected a catch in her voice. “There’ll be other opportunities. You come and have your suppers now.”

She had kept their plates warm near the dying fire, and she gave Tad one. The youngster stood up to eat while Emma brought Joe’s plate. He looked down at it, potatoes, biscuits, butter, jerked beef that they had bought in Independence, and a cup of coffee. They were his usual full rations, and he said,

“Doggone, I just don’t feel hungry. If you’ll put this away, it’ll be all the lunch I want tomorrow.”

Tad said, “I ain’t hungry neither, Mom.”

“Now see here!” Emma’s voice rose and there was a convulsive sob in it. “Barbara wasn’t hungry, Tad isn’t hungry, you aren’t hungry—! What’s the matter with all of you! You’ve got to eat—you’ve got to!”

Carefully, Joe put the plate and the cup of coffee on the ground. He caught her in his arms and held her very close to him, and she leaned against him, tense and trembling, without making a sound. His arms tightened about her, and he whispered so even Tad couldn’t hear,