The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (11 page)

“Fetch Gwen and her needles and thread. Fast!’’

Maggie looked fearfully into Johnny’s eyes and bolted. She met a strange sight at their campfire. Sam had a sleeping Charlotte tucked up in his arms, Irish next to him whispering inanities to his own armful of little Irene. Jamie was curled up with Mattie and Hilda on the buffalo robe by the fire, Bacon protectively at their feet.

“Where’s Gwen?’’

“Taking a little rest. How is Hazel?’’

“Not good.’’ Maggie ran again to find Gwen, to shake her awake.

Gwen opened her eyes. “What is it?’’

“We need your sewing things and your skill at once.’’

“But~’’

“No buts. You’ve got to stitch up Hazel.’’

Maggie could see Gwen blanch even through the darkness. But she got up, straightened her skirts, grabbed for her sewing bag and followed Maggie.

Maggie watched with the men as Gwen hesitated by the wagon. Visibly she pulled herself together and hoisted herself up to perform her chore of mercy. They could hear Grandma and see her, silhouetted against the canvas by the lantern within.

“It’s no trouble child. I done it many times afore, but my eyesight’s not what it used to be. And it’s firm, steady hands what are called for. She lost some of her insides with the baby and I had to open her up to get it all out. No saving her otherwise.’’

Gwen was mumbling incoherently. It sounded like a plea to heaven. But the shadow of her hands through the cloth carefully began threading an invisible needle. Maggie turned away. She could not watch more. Her own hands shaking, she went to rattle the coffeepot and fill it again. Incapable of doing anything else, she knelt down beside Johnny and rested her head on his chest to wait.

Gwen lingered after her work, drinking a cup of coffee in silence with the others. Fingers that had acted so firmly professional within the wagon were trembling uncontrollably. Maggie shooed her off to put the babies to bed.

It must have been two in the morning when Grandma finally eased her tired bones out of the wagon. “It’s time to see if my lot have killed themselves off yet,’’ murmured Grandma.

“Johnny checked on them thrice. They’re asleep now.’’

Grandma gave Johnny a thankful nod. She turned to Max, whose muscles were strained taught awaiting the verdict.

“If we don’t get no more blood, and she can rest easy for awhile, no worries or interruptions, she might make it.’’

Max swallowed a sob. “I’ll never be able to thank you, Grandma.’’

“Don’t be giving me no thanks yet. Send your prayers straight up to the Almighty.’’ She swiveled around. “
Captain
Stuart. It seems to me as how the stock could use a day of rest tomorrow.’’

“You took the words out of my mouth, Grandma. And the folks up at the fort made mention of a little game hereabouts. I think it’s high time this party made some meat for the next leg of the trip.’’

“Good. My younguns are startin’ to look like sticks. Some rich broth be just what Hazel needs, too.’’ She confronted Max a final time.

“
If
she lives, Hazel won’t be making any more babies for you. Thank the Lord you got your fine girls already and don’t be sorrowing your mind for any more. And
if
she lives she won’t be in no mood for any night visitations for at least six weeks. Do I make myself clear?’’

Max nodded dumbly.

Grandma waved her arms at all of them. “Go on, git! Off to bed with you. You can’t be doing no more now. Be needing your strength for the new day.’’

They followed her orders.

Hazel was still alive the next morning. Weak, but alive. Max took no chances on the luck of the hunting party that set off early, but went to the fort and bartered for a goat. He brought one back, and presented it, still warm, to Maggie.

“I know I shouldn’t be asking for more favors, but I was hoping you’d cook some good soup for Hazel.’’

Maggie had had next to no sleep in the remaining hours before the dawn. Life had seemed too precious a commodity to be wasted on that. Instead, she and Johnny had made up in their tent. There’d been more grace and tenderness than on their wedding night. Maggie may have been exhausted in body, but she was soaring in spirit.

“Max Kreller, don’t you ever come begging to me. You and Hazel took over for us during our Indian troubles. You know I’m just returning what’s due. And it’s not out of duty, either, but love. You need something, ask!’’

Maggie hauled out her soup kettle and took another look at the goat. “But if you’d be kind enough to skin the creature for me, I’d be much obliged.’’

Max managed a small smile and proceeded with the butchering. Maggie sent the children out in search of wild onions and herbs, and before noon was spooning broth into her friend. The remainder of the day passed in smoking the largest part of the goat’s meat, looking after two sets of children, and getting Gwen to help in doing the Kreller laundry, along with their own.

Contented hunters returned near sundown. They’d cornered a lone buffalo lost from its herd and four deer. They also brought tales of seeing a herd of wild horses, but hadn’t the time to pursue them.

There was plenty of meat at the fires that night, and the stock had rested well and grazed to their content during the day. Much as he desired it, Johnny as captain could find no further excuses to prolong their stayover at Bridger. The bulk of the party was anxious to be moving on, and Hazel would have to take her chances by moving with them. The sickness of one member of the group could not take priority over the purpose of their journey.

They pulled out in the morning, leaving the Donner Party behind them to wait for Hastings. Maggie was not sorry to see the last of them. The widow Annabelle would have to start practicing her wiles on another man. And Jack Gentry, for all of his threats, would make no more approaches to Maggie, no further inquiries into the antecedents of their printing press. The last she heard Gentry was happily bilking the fort’s residents of their earthly resources in a non-stop card game.

Jack Gentry was, indeed, practicing at this moment one of his many marketable skills. The quickness of his eyes and fingers, as well as the glibness of his tongue had been only some among his many talents that had endeared him so well to Brigham Young. He sat now in a dark and smoky hovel at Fort Bridger, at a table pockmarked by the inscriptions of many knives, surrounded by the dregs of humanity. He was dealing out another poker hand.

The action was natural, requiring no thought. His mind was free to roam through the many levels of his current mission. He’d learned of Joseph Smith’s assassination while he was in England seeking recruits for the new city of Nauvoo. He’d been one of the few to see the beauty of the disaster. Ridding the organization of Joseph Smith and his mostly absurd prophecies left the field open to the strongest~and Gentry’s good friend and confidante Brigham Young had been quick to clear out the remaining dreck and assume power. Gentry, under another name, had been recalled to assist at this task. After the structure of Mormonism had been assured, he was freed for the next chore. Revenge. As little as he privately felt about Smith, Gentry was quick to understand the necessity of revenge.

Catching the glint of white in a filthy shirtsleeve, Gentry’s pearl-handled revolver was aiming at the man across the table in a split second.

“Show your hand, Carter.’’

Gulping, the skinny, sorry excuse for a human being spread his cards.

“Now show the card up your sleeve.’’

Reluctantly Carter pulled out the ace of spades.

“Wouldn’t have helped with this hand at all, would it?’’ Gentry cocked his pistol. “Get out of my sight before I do you justice. There’s many another man willing to take your place at this table.’’

Carter shoved out his chair petulantly. Standing, he paused to reach for his winnings. Gentry’s pistol butt crashed onto his fingers. The sound of splintering bones filled the deathly stillness of the room.

“That’ll be my share now, Carter. Cheaters haven’t got a right to the takings.’’

Carter slithered out of the room, favoring his injured hand and muttering to himself. His seat was immediately filled by another mountain man. Gentry called in the hand and redealt.

Yes. Revenge. First there had been the Carthage Greys to deal with. He and his fellow Danites had picked off several of the officers. Just enough to put the fear of the Mormon god into the local militia. Next they’d done the same with a selection of local leaders, making sure to cover men from a three county radius, so word of Mormon rage would spread.

But the real perpetrators of the deed had gone scott free. They’d just disappeared into thin air. Until this winter. Some said Gentry and his Danite brothers had done their job of spreading fear too well. Nearly the whole state of Illinois had gotten up in arms and told the Mormons they were no longer wanted. Gentry~along with Brigham Young~had known it was for the best. They’d shepherd their flock so far that no one would ever interfere with them again.

The whole city of Nauvoo had taken to the ice of the Mississippi, trekking pitifully across it with their earthly belongings in handcarts. Only then had word come that one of the planners of Smith’s assassination, the
intelligence
behind the deed, was fleeing West with the spring. Feelers had been out for over a year. It had finally paid off. Much as most folks hated the Mormons, there were always those willing to spy for a few coins, or a good word with Brigham Young. It was just human nature. You didn’t have to be a Jack Mormon to have the temperament of a Judas.

Gentry paused to light another cigar, to silently deal yet another hand. He’d felt so strongly that his prey was in that other wagon train. The Chandler/Stuart train. It wasn’t only the Ramage press. But the press had set him off. How had it turned up here, out of the waters of the Mississippi? When the Stuart woman and child had panned out he’d tried learning more from their neighbors. Pah! He threw down his hand in exasperation. They were but dumb farmers, the lot of them. No imagination. To them the Ramage was just another tool. If it couldn’t plow the land they could care less.

Gentry tapped the ash from his cigar impatiently. He would bide his time in this slovenly place for a few more days. A party of his brother Angels would be rendezvousing with him shortly. They’d be coming up from their surveying work around the Great Salt Lake. Perhaps they’d have more intelligence on the subject. They had started out after he.

If Gentry’s prey were, indeed, aboard the train pulling out this morning it would be child’s play to catch up with it, with the perpetrator, on his own superb mount. He’d not let Brigham down. There was a place of glory waiting for Jack Gentry, for whomever he chose to call himself, in the new Mormon state. And maybe he’d just haul along that red-headed wench. She’d add spice to his life while waiting for his other wives to catch up. Gentry grinned to himself. Maybe Joe Smith hadn’t been half bad at that. Celestial Marriage was surely the stroke of a genius.

Five days later the Stuart Party caught up with the Jarboe Party. It was where the Sublette cut-off met the old Oregon trail at the Bear River. Jarboe and his group were camped by the side of the river, much the worse for wear. Johnny called a stop for the noon break and everyone crowding around to hear Jarboe’s tale, Maggie included. She searched for the always weary face of Jarboe’s wife and couldn’t find it, so settled Charlotte between her legs to listen.

Jarboe was unshaven and gaunt. His clothes were in worse shape than their own. He stared at Johnny wistfully before beginning.

“It weren’t no fun. Lost Simpson’s wagon halfway through, and two of his oxen. Had to leave it and double up. Then my Effie come down with a heat sickness in the dry part. I buried her two days back.’’ He scratched his chin and cleared his throat.

“The younguns miss her bad.’’ He brought his eyes up to Johnny and Chandler hovering nearby. “Had no idea whatsoever what it were like to be in charge. If’n you take my apology, I wish you’d consider takin’ us all back. Simpson an’ Smith an’ Peterson, they all agree with me.’’ He looked over a shoulder for his cronies’s support and they nodded vigorously.

Johnny didn’t hesitate. He shoved out his hand for Jarboe’s. “We’re all in this together, Al. We promised to help each other back in Independence, didn’t we?’’ Jarboe’s hand clung to his. “I’m only sorry we weren’t there to comfort you when you buried your wife. You need any help with your children, you just ask.’’

Jarboe did not say `thank you’. But the relief shown in his eyes. Maggie picked up Charlotte and went to seek out the Jarboe children. All but one of them were well past the babying stage, but that little one might be in need of a motherly bosom. Al Jarboe just wasn’t built the right way.

Hazel was going to make it. It wasn’t easy for her to jounce around in the wagon, but with Maggie and Gwen taking charge of her children and her meals she grew a little stronger each day. Max did as much as he could. He even weathered the incredulous looks of most of the men of the party when he took to slinging his youngest daughter on his back each morning. It was a growing experience for him, as Maggie learned with a smile when he fussed at supper of an incredibly sore back from the weight of his Irene. She couldn’t resist joshing him.

“And Hazel, small as she is, never complained?’’

“Never! But I’ll say one thing. She’ll not be carrying the child like that again on this trip!’’

“Amen to that!’’

As they moved farther West through land alternately arid and sage-strewn or looking like craters on the moon, Maggie began to feel more and more like Christian in
A Pilgrim’s Progress
. She began to understand more fully the words from Deuteronomy, “the Heavens over us were brass, and the earth iron under our feet.’’ But she also learned that “as thy day is, so thy strength shall be.’’ The dried bits of buffalo and deer meat were never filling, but the jerky gave a wiry energy to everyone’s endeavors. What had to be done was done.

The emigrants found brief relief in the effervescent waters of Soda Springs, pausing long enough to steam meals in the hot waters, and mix grains of sugar with the cool sparkling waters of Beer Springs for refreshing drinks. There followed an even drier spell between the Bear and Portneuf Rivers, and the brief respite of Fort Hall before following the Snake River to the Blue Mountains.

At Fort Hall, Maggie was reminded by the pleasant gentleman in charge that it was but ten years since Narcissa Whitman had been the first white woman to grace the fort’s tables, and to complete the overland trail. As wife of Captain John Stuart, Maggie was also invited to a meal with the fort’s officers. She luxuriated in the attentions of men too long without the comforts of civilized places and civilized women. She especially luxuriated in turnips and bread fried in buffalo grease. Had Narcissa Whitman eaten turnips here? And had the fort’s garden looked as poorly in the August heat of 1836?

Maggie dwelt more and more upon Mrs. Whitman and the mission as they continued their journey. She knew the sacrifices already made by women in her own train. But these sacrifices had been made for the greater good of those who would survive the journey to the greener lands of opportunity beyond. How must it feel to be going West with the foreknowledge that one would settle forever just short of those opportunities, in the parched lands before the final mountains to the coast? How must it feel to dedicate one’s entire being to a group of Indians who would prefer to be left alone?