Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (15 page)

“I know.”

“Mrs. Kneedler is sick too.” He leaned his head back, looking up at the falling snow. “And I have to get everyone to a safe place for the night. We all can’t wait here until your father—”

She stopped him. “He’s not going to die.”

“And we don’t have enough men to carry him to the fort or to the mission.”

She looked to the right, at the small cow path that was supposed to take them to the mission. To her left was the path that was supposed to lead to Fort Vancouver. The carts had disappeared into the trees.

Their oxen, Abe and George, waited near Papa. They were both weak, but if she got rid of their remaining things, maybe the oxen could carry Papa in the cart.

“The carts—” she began.

Jack shook his head. “He wouldn’t survive an hour in a cart.”

“Then Micah and I will have to wait until he can travel.”

“I can’t stay with you.” He looked down the path where their company had gone. “But I can’t leave you and Micah here alone either.”

She nodded her head solemnly. The choices out here were agonizing.

She looked over at Micah, snuggled close under the buffalo pelt with Papa. Snow iced the fur, covering it like powdered sugar. Papa didn’t shake or stir. When had her father grown so old? His hair was peppered with gray, and the sun on his face made his skin look like cracked leather. “I can’t leave Papa alone either.”

Perhaps if he got some rest, he would be better in the morning.

“He’s going to die, Samantha, and you might too if you stay here.”

Her body stiffened. “He’s not going to die!”

“I don’t know what to do,” Jack pleaded, looking up at the dark sky again. “You can’t travel with your father, but with the snow...we need to find a place to set up camp tonight.”

Everything seemed to collapse within her. She knew what he was saying, but as with the killing of their dogs, she couldn’t comprehend it. He was asking the impossible of her.

“I can’t—” She clutched her fists together. “I’m not leaving him here.”

“There’s no shelter here from the storm.”

She looked over her shoulder, east instead of west, at the path that led away from her company. “I’ll take him to the mission in the morning.”

He shook his head. “It will be too late.”

“No, it won’t.”

Jack studied her for a moment. “We can take Micah with us, just until you get to the valley.”

She looked over at her brother again. Was she being selfish to keep him with her? Or was it safer for him to stay where she could watch him? The members of their company all had plenty to worry about without adding the burden of someone else to feed and care for. No one would care for him like she would. If he got lost again...she could never forgive herself.

She knew what Mama would say. Mama would tell her to keep Micah with her.

She took a deep breath. “He can help me with Papa.”

“Samantha—”

She shook her head. Her mind was made up. She didn’t care if Jack Doyle was angry at her or if they didn’t make it to the Willamette this fall. She had to take care of her family.

“Come with us,” Jack whispered one last time.

Her hands clenched her skirt in fury at him and his urging to leave her father behind. Even if Papa was going to die, she had to care for him until he was gone from this world. She would rather die than live the rest of her life knowing that she’d abandoned her father to the snow and wild animals that would surely finish what the grizzly had begun.

She shivered.

How could Jack ask this of her?

She looked at her toes, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

Jack unpacked her oxcart, and as the snow fell harder around him, he quickly strung the canvas over several low tree limbs in the small clearing and put their bedrolls inside. “When he—” Jack started. “When you can, follow the river east to the mission. I’ll come back for you as soon as the others are safe.”

She nodded. “Tell the others I said good-bye.”

Jack backed away, and she knew he was angry with her. But, really, she should be the angry one. He was leaving her.

Micah hugged him and then waved as Jack walked away on the path.

Samantha collapsed against a tree, the shock of it all engulfing her. Tears bubbled up in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She had to stay strong for Micah and her father.

She was tempted to yell at Jack to wait, that she and Micah were coming with him, but she could never leave her father. Just maybe he would recover quickly, like Micah had. They could all walk to the mission in the morning.

She stepped down to the mighty Columbia and dipped her pail into the river. As much as she wished she could make a hot soup for Papa and Micah, rich with vegetables and potatoes and meat, water would have to suffice.

Never in her life would she again take for granted the life-giving power of a cup of water.

Inside the tent, Micah was playing with his wooden animals on the ground. Papa shivered under his coverings, his face beaded with sweat, and she lifted his head, spooning sips of water into his mouth. For a moment, his eyes were clear, his voice raspy. “Where did the others go?”

“They’re walking down the river.”

“You—you have to go with them,” he said, his voice urgent.

She shook her head. “No—”

“You can’t stay out here by yourself.”

She pulled Micah close to her. “I’m not alone, and neither of us is leaving you.”

His face strained. “My back hurts—”

“I know, Papa. We’re going to get you better.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late.”

She gave him the last of the laudanum, and then Boaz sat beside her. She snuggled into his coat. They didn’t need Jack and the others. Together, the four of them would be loyal to each other. They would get Papa to a safe place.

Jack felt sick. He didn’t have camp fever like Mrs. Kneedler, but guilt was burning his insides. He’d done the unthinkable—left behind an ailing man, a seven-year-old child, and the woman he once thought he’d marry.

He raked his fingers through his hair, clinging to his walking stick as he herded their miserable-looking party of three westward. He’d had no choice but to leave Samantha and her family, had he? It wasn’t possible to get the others to safety, not with her choice to stay behind.

He had caught up with the Kneedlers, but the Oxfords and the Parkers were still ahead of them on the trail. When he found the rest of their fragmented party, perhaps they could vote to turn around. But if they went to the mission and the snow continued to fall, he feared they would all have to remain for the winter. The missionaries might not have enough food and supplies for all of them.

They might all die if they didn’t continue west.

And they might still die if they didn’t get to shelter soon.

He had to get the others to safety, but if something happened to Samantha—

The snow fell harder on their path and he prayed as he walked, prayed that Samantha and Micah would survive the night. That Hiram would pass on quickly so that Samantha and Micah could leave for the mission in the morning.

It was a rare woman who could survive out in this wilderness by herself, but Samantha could do it.

He only wished she had trusted him enough to come with him when he’d asked. He shouldn’t be frustrated at her, not for staying to care for her father, but it was clear to all of them that Hiram was going to die. If not tonight, then soon.

He didn’t want her and Micah to die as well.

He raked his hand through his hair again.

What kind of man was he? He should have kept the group together no matter what. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for him to go back.

Mr. Kneedler put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You should go find her.”

He nodded. “I will, once we catch up with the others.”

“Prudence and I are in God’s hands.”

He looked back at Mrs. Kneedler, who was supporting herself against the cart. He knew she was terribly ill, and he also knew she was praying for the Waldron family as she walked. The Kneedlers
were in God’s hands, perhaps, but for this season, God had entrusted them to him as well. Mrs. Kneedler might live if he got her to the fort in time.

“There was no good choice, Jack,” Mr. Kneedler said. “Samantha couldn’t leave him.”

“Do you think they can make it to the mission?”

Jack waited, hoping the man would tell him that God would keep them safe in His hands, that He would send a host of angels to protect Samantha and her family.

“No one knows the will of God, Jack.”

“It couldn’t possibly be His will for them to die.”

Mr. Kneedler glanced across the swift river. “Sometimes I wonder if I was foolish to bring Prudence on this journey. That I stepped ahead or even outside of what God would have me do. But I still feel like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. We must pray that Samantha is exactly where she is supposed to be and that help will come when she needs it. And that you obey His voice as well.”

Two hours later, Jack and the Kneedlers stopped walking. A good inch of snow had accumulated on the ground, and darkness settled over them. There would be no catching up with their remaining party tonight.

He helped Arthur set up his tent and then quickly set up his own.

Samantha needed help now; Jack could feel it in his bones. But he couldn’t be there to rescue her.

Chapter Thirteen

Samantha’s candle flickered inside the tent. Papa and Micah both slept close to her, but she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she opened up Mama’s favorite book and read about Christian’s pilgrimage. She could almost see Papa pressing ahead in the story alongside Christian, staying faithful on his journey to the Celestial City.

Christian hadn’t deterred like the others to the City of Destruction. He pursued what was right. Even when his body gave out, he continued to overcome until it was time for him to cross over the river and into the Celestial City.

Now, now, look how the holy pilgrims ride,
Clouds are their chariots, angels are their guide:
Who would not here for him all hazards run,
That thus provides for his when this world’s done.

Papa stirred in the candlelight, opening his eyes.

“Oh, Samantha,” he murmured, his smile weak. “You’re as pretty as your mother.”

She shook her head. Her body was covered with dust, her hair windblown, her nose burnt from the sun. And she was tired to her core. “I’m not pretty, Papa.”

“Yes, you are.” Papa reached for her hand, squeezed it. “And you are strong—much stronger than your mama, and stronger than me.”

Samantha tucked the quilt around his shoulders. “You need to sleep.”

Samantha put down her book and opened their medical box again. The laudanum was gone, but they still had some castor oil and peppermint. Neither would heal this infection, but she wouldn’t stop fighting, not until the angels came for him.

Her hands shaking, she put a few drops of the castor oil in a spoon and tried to force it between his lips.

He tossed his head. “No more.”

She tried to push it back into his lips. “We have to fight, Papa.”

He shook his head, his brown hair ratted around his head.

“‘To every thing there is a season,’” he quoted from the book of Ecclesiastes. “‘A time to be born, and a time to die.’” Samantha stopped him. “It also says there’s a time to heal, Papa. A time to laugh and dance.”

“They’ll be plenty of dancing in the heavens.”

Tears trickled down her dusty cheeks. She wanted to keep fighting for Papa’s life with everything she had—she wanted Papa to keep fighting for it—but she couldn’t force Papa to live.

Perhaps it was time for her to let go. Perhaps it was time for Papa to be able to run and dance and drink from the living fountain that would never go dry.

Perhaps it was time for Papa to be well again.

Samantha put the spoon down and kissed her father’s cheek, knowing that this world was almost done for him. The clouds would be Papa’s chariot, the angels his guide.

The hours passed in silence. Micah slept beside her. She couldn’t sleep, knowing it was probably Papa’s last night with them. He stirred again and she leaned down, opening the tent flap. The snow had stopped, and hundreds of stars glittered against the night sky.

It seemed fitting to her; the stars would be Papa’s chariot instead of the clouds.

“Look at this view, Papa.” Samantha gently lifted his head so he could see the splendor outside. “You made it to the Columbia River.”

He rested against her. “The Columbia,” he said slowly. “We did it.”

“Yes, we did.”

She lay Papa back down to rest, but moments later he sat up again, his voice more urgent this time. “I haven’t been a good father to you.”

“Yes, you have.”

He shook his head. “Forgive me?”

She had nothing to forgive him for, but she kissed his forehead anyway. “Of course.”

“You take care of Micah, good care of him.”

She looked over at her brother, asleep under the blanket. “We’ll both take care of him.”

Papa shook her arm with surprising strength, like he had to make Samantha understand. “You need to care for him.”