Mr. Kyler seemed tired almost all the time now, dawn to dusk. He looked older than he had when Hiram and I had met him, too. I heard him sigh a hundred times a day. And poor, pale Mary Taylor was too weak to walk to supper most nights.
Her father would carry her, setting her gently on an overturned apple box so she could get out from beneath the dirty wagon canvas and sit with us under the wide sky for a half hour or so each evening.
Mr. Silas and his friends kept farther and farther apart from the rest of us. They had never been much for socializing, but now they kept to themselves so much it was rare that any of them spoke to one of us.
I heard them arguing now and then, if I grazed the Mustang close to their wagon. From what I could gather, Mr. Silas had talked the others into coming, and they were all beginning to question whether what he had told them about the wonderful land of Oregon was true. One of them kept saying they should have turned off to go to California instead of heading into these treacherous mountains.
I led the Mustang away before they could notice me. The truth was, a lot of the families were having similar doubts and similar talks. We were all just so tired.
All the weary way to Fort Boise we traveled across dry country littered with sharp, dark rocks that gritted and ground at the wagon wheels. We stayed there only a day. As hot as it was, the menfolk were worried about being in the Blue Mountains when the snows began, so we pushed on. I asked after my uncle, but again, no one had ever heard of him.
The sun had felt like an enemy all through August, and, as we passed into September, the hot days ran one into the next. The country was so rough, so barren, that if the Snake River hadn't been there, we would never have made it through.
Finally, we got a few cloudy days and some relief from the heat. But the rain, when it came, pelted down in a flood and soaked us all, leaving the trail a mud mire. There was lightning, too, so loud and bright it seemed fit to crack the earth in two. Over and over it hit near enough to shake the very ground. The Mustang was terrified, and so was I. We stood by the wagon close together. He was trembling.
“Katie Rose, get inside!” Mrs. Kyler shouted at me more than once.
I pretended that I couldn't hear over the pounding of the rain, and she finally gave up. I knew she meant well and was only trying to take care of me, but I felt safer standing outside with the Mustang than I ever felt huddled inside the canvas-topped wagonâand he needed my comfort as much as I needed his, I was sure.
It rained most of the night. Around midnight, Mr. Kyler brought me a piece of canvas to wear like a shawl and his own hat. I was already soaked, but it helped some, and I was grateful. I leaned against the side of the wagon, and I guess I fell asleep standing up.
At sunrise the next morning, I was startled awake by a long, eerie, wailing sound. It was Mrs. Taylor. Sometime during the long,violent storm,Mary Taylor had gone outside the wagon for some reason. She had been unable to climb back in and she was soaked to the bone, shivering and feverish. None of the Taylors, deep in an exhausted sleep and deafened by the rain on the canvas, had heard her.
I could see the anguish in Mrs. Taylor's eyes from that morning onward, and I felt sorry for her. She and her husband took such good, tender care of Mary. They were as loving as two parents could be, and it broke their hearts to have failed her.
Not long after that, we had to cross the Snake River. There were three islands in the river at the crossing. We camped and watched another party go over, and while we were camped, a big party of wagons caught us up and passed, going south rather than crossing the river where we were.
I heard some of the men calling to the other party, asking what they knew about the trail ahead. That set the menfolk to debating. It was another hard decision, like all the rest. Some wanted to wait and cross farther north. The men in the party that had gone past had thought it might be easier farther on.
Mr. Silas wanted to build rafts to float the wagons. Mr. Kyler liked the idea, but everyone knew it would take three or four days to cut trees and lash the logs together. And there weren't many trees close to on this side of the river. It'd mean dragging them with our already tired oxen.
I noticed Liddy's three companions joining in as the decision was made. Mr. Swann was strongly for crossing. We'd had cloudy afternoons the past two days, and, if it rained again, the river could rise. Mr. Dillard kept pointing out that the islands would let us cross in the wide spot, where the water would be at least a little less deep.
It became a shouting match. Mr. Le Croix argued one side, then switched to the other, then back. Andrew Kyler liked the idea of the stock being able to rest on each island, but he wasn't sure about anything else.
In the end, we crossed. I think the men were too tired to keep arguing about it. It took the whole day, what with figuring the best way, then recaulking the wagons so they would float better, easing the load for the oxen to pull as they swam across the deepest places. We spent hours repacking, deciding who would ride where and how to get everyone over the water. It was past noon before we ever started.
I rode with Mr. and Mrs. Kyler again. The Mustang would stay with the mares and swim over, with the Kyler boys herding the whole bunch.
Mr. Kyler led the way, and I was glad. The only thing worse than crossing rivers was
waiting
to cross rivers, staring at the water, worrying. Mr. Kyler shouted and whipped the oxen forward, forcing them into the water until it was deep enough to swim, then he reined them toward the first island and shouted encouragement as they headed toward it.
I thought the current might push us too far downstream, but Mr. Kyler had figured it right. The wagon bumped against the bottom, and Mr. Kyler started a second fit of shouting and whip snapping to urge the oxen up out of the water and on up the bank.
Once we were on level ground, Mrs. Kyler gave me a quick hug, then got down to walk alongside, watching the wagons behind, concerned for her family. I got down to walk beside her, keeping an eye on the Mustang, still on the far shore with the rest of the horses.
Mr. Kyler guided the oxen the length of the little spit of land, then let them stand and rest for half an hour before he drove them into the water a second time. While we waited, two more wagons had come across. Mrs. Kyler went to check on Hannah, then came back. Hannah had insisted on driving her wagon while Andrew drove the stock as usual, even though her pregnancy made Andrew nervous and protective.
Andrew had the stock spread out and grazing. He would bring them across last. Mrs. Kyler and I got back up on the wagon bench. It made me uneasy, as always, to be separated from the Mustang, and I fidgeted so much leaning out to look back that Mrs. Kyler reached out and took my hand.
Finally, Mr. Kyler popped the whip and swam the oxen across an even deeper channel to the second island. The current was strong, and I gripped the wagon seat with both hands, staring at the rushing water.
We waited again, this time for nearly an hour. Then we led the way to the third island. It was the smallest, and it had steep banks. The wagon jolted, and I hung on to the edge of the driver's bench as the oxen staggered out of the water and onto dry land again. Mr. Kyler rested the team an hour or so before he asked the oxen to swim the last stretch back to solid ground.
They heaved and blew as they swam the last channel, their breath rasping when they touched bottom and began to pull again. The instant the wagon halted, I jumped down and ran back to watch the rest of the wagons come across. All came fine, except the Taylors'. The current tumbled it over and we all stood helpless, watching the oxen struggle to keep their muzzles above water, fighting their wooden yokes and the harness. I could see Mr. Taylor clinging to one wheel. His wife was washed downstream, but she wasn't far from the bank, and Charles Kyler jumped in to save her. Their other children hung on to the wagon and were dragged to safety when the oxen stumbled up onto the bank.
The one no one could save was poor Mary. Weak and ill with the fever she'd caught in the rain, she had been in the back of the wagon and had been drowned. From the instant we saw her limp form in her father's arms, the whole party went silent. He carried her alongside the wagon while Mrs. Taylor drove. Both looked stricken, and we all just watched them come ashore, unable to say or do anything to help them.
Last across were Andrew and his brothers with the horses. The Mustang swam at the rear as he usually did, a little off to one side, Delia and Midnight just in front of him. It was a wide, deep river, and I held my breath, but the horses all came across safe to the first island.
Andrew let them blow and shake and graze until they had all caught their breath and rested a little, then he brought them on across to the second island, then the third.
I ran toward the Mustang as he waded out. “Mary died,” I whispered to him, and somehow that made it real. My eyes burned. I was standing too close when he shook the water from his coat. He spattered my dress.
I turned to walk beside him up the bank and saw Grover watching me. He had dark circles beneath his eyes. I had barely spoken to him lately. He had been busy dawn to dark doing almost all his mother's chores as well as his own. I was pretty sure her stomach had gotten worse.
“Poor Mary,” he said.
I nodded and sighed. “Poor Mary.”
Grover walked a little closer, keeping one eye on the Mustang. The stallion flicked his ears back and forth. I wondered if he remembered that Grover had killed the rattlesnake.
“She was always so nice to me,” he said.
I nodded. It was impossible for me to talk much about Mary just then. I think he felt the same because he just nodded, then bit at his lower lip for a long time. “Mr. Swann showed me a little juggling trick,” Grover said finally. “I've been practicing.” He fished in his pockets and pulled out three round stones as we walked up the bank and followed the slow, sad parade of people in front of us.
“Look.” Grover tossed one stone in the air, and caught it in his other hand. Then he tossed a second one. Then, for a few seconds, he had all three stones in the air at once before he got mixed up and dropped them.
“It looks hard,” I said.
He nodded. “It is.”
“How is your mother feeling?” I asked, patting the Mustang's neck.
Grover shrugged. Then his eyes met mine for an instant. “She can't eat. I think she might be dying.” He said it so quietly that, for a moment, I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. But I could see in his eyes that I had.
I didn't know what to say. I just reached out and touched his hand. I thought he might talk about it more, but he didn't. I wanted desperately to say something to help. I took in a breath, and I even opened my mouth, but no words came out. Everything that formed in my mind sounded empty and useless in the face of Mary's death, and what he had just told me.
“I'm so sorry,” I finally managed. My voice sounded stiff and brittle. But he wasn't listening to me; he was turning away. He walked slowly, like he had forgotten I was there. I watched him pass his parents' wagon and head off into the trees. I said a little prayer for him, then added one for Annie and one for Hiram.
Even though there was a grave to dig, no one wanted to go any farther than we had to after the exhausting river crossing, so we camped about a half mile from the river. I could see the oxen's legs trembling with fatigue as Mr. Kyler unhitched them.
They were thin and exhausted, and it scared me. What would all the families do if the oxen gave out? We could only hope to hit better grass country soon. The horses in Andrew's herd were all looking rough. Midnight's ribs stood out. Delia had kept her weight a little better.
The Mustang still had a bit of flesh over his ribs as well, but that was only because I did nothing all day except find him little clumps and patches of grass.
The women set to making camp in silence. The men found a place to dig a grave. The grave digging was terrible hard work, hampered by mud and sprinkling rainâand the rock. I stood back through most of it, busying myself with finding grass for the Mustang and with helping Andrew gather up the stock. He was stumble-tired, had gotten even less sleep than I had.
Once the grave was deep enough for decency, I heard Mrs. Taylor sing a hymn, her voice shaking and weak, but brave. Then Mr. Taylor read from the Bible. They had wrapped their daughter in a quilt and buried her in it. I could not watch the whole time. The feelings that stirred inside me were more painful than I could bear.
In the morning, the oxen walked slowly as we started off in the chilly predawn dusk. “How much farther do we have to go?” I asked Mr. Kyler when the Mustang and I came past his wagon. I smiled, waiting for him to tell me Oregon City was around the next bend.
“I don't know for certain, Katie,” he said slowly. “I'd say three, four hundred miles.”
I could only stare at him, it surprised me that
much. He saw my reaction and gathered the reins in one hand so he could reach out and pat my head.
“It's a hard road, no doubt about it,” he told me. “But we have to get along it now quick as we can to beat the snow. No time to rest.”
I nodded and tried to smile at him; he looked
so worn out that it worried me.
“Snow would be about the only thing that'd stop us now, though,” he said, and chuckled as though he had said something funny.
I smiled and nodded. “It won't snow,” I said, just to be cheerful, too.
He shrugged. “It will or it won't; no way to know. I hope not.” He looked up at the sky. It was clear overhead, but there were a few clouds on the northern horizon. “Storms probably come in from the north out here, or maybe the west, coming in off the ocean.”