Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (17 page)

Papa had been so excited when the doctor said that Oregon Country, with its fresh air and open spaces, might be a good place for Mama to get well again. Not only did he want Mama well, but Papa craved adventure, free land to farm, and a vast wilderness to hunt. He
was also convinced that the people of Oregon would one day need his services as an attorney.

Even Mama had seemed enthusiastic about the possibilities of this new life, until her illness returned...and then stole her away. Papa was still determined to go to Oregon, maybe even more so after Mama’s death. They sold their belongings not long after they buried her and traveled to Missouri to buy a wagon and supplies. He never seemed to look back.

She brushed her hands over her eyes.

She’d wanted to come to Oregon almost as much as Papa... for the adventure and also so she, Micah, and Papa could learn how to be a family. And they had relied on each other and loved each other for six months.

God had given all of them a gift.

“Whoa,” she shouted.

The oxen and Boaz stopped at her command. Their path continued left through the forest, but through the trees she saw a wide plain of flat land leading to the river. Tall posts from almost a dozen tepees towered in the air, and she saw specks of people milling near the water. There would surely be food in the Indian village and maybe a place to rest, but she remembered well how that Indian man had looked at her back on the plains—the one who offered Papa three horses for her.

There were friendly Indians at Fort Hall, but the traders had told them about some tribes who held people captive as slaves. If they refused to release her and Micah, Jack may never find them on their return. She didn’t know if these Indians were friendly or not, and she couldn’t risk something else terrible happening to her brother.

They had to keep moving west.

Micah waved his arms over his head and shouted, “Hello!”

“Hush, Micah.” She pulled his arms down. “Not all Indians are friendly like the ones at Fort Hall.”

Micah tugged on her hand, pulling her toward the village. “Maybe they’re cooking salmon for supper.” He turned toward her, pleading with his eyes. “Please, Sam.”

She kissed the top of his head. “It won’t be long now before we’ll be at the fort.”

Boaz barked, and she turned. His eyes were focused on the trees to their immediate left.

“What is it?” she whispered, scanning the branches.

The oxen hauled the cart slowly ahead of her. If there was a predator nearby, they didn’t seem to sense it.

A branch cracked in the trees, and Boaz growled. She reached for the whip.

“Get up,” she commanded, snapping the whip over their oxen’s heads.

They all needed to keep walking.

Jack sat on an animal fur and sipped a watery soup from a cone-shaped basket. The wooden strips were gummed together with some sort of resinous substance to hold in the liquid. Across the smoldering fire were the Kneedlers, and to their right were two Indian men wearing deerskin tunics embroidered with porcupine quills and tan leggings. Their black hair had been pulled back by twists of leather around their foreheads, and they smelled like grease.

The men studied him closely as they ate soup from their baskets, and fear snaked through his skin. Where they just waiting until they slept to kill them? Or were they planning something else?

An icy rain had replaced the snow, pattering against the leather covering overhead. Mrs. Kneedler had drunk about a gallon of river water before she fell asleep on the fur that she shared with
her husband, her mouth continuing to bleed even as she rested. They needed to get to the fort quickly and find Doctor Rochester or another doctor to care for her.

Jack’s mind raced. The Indian who’d welcomed them to the village knew enough broken English to explain that the Oxfords and Parkers had left that morning with their supplies and two Indian guides to raft downriver.

Using hand motions and a few English words, Jack asked the man if their guides could take him, the Kneedlers, and their supplies down the river as well, the next morning. The man pointed at their remaining oxen, and Jack agreed to the trade for their transportation. The sooner he could get the Kneedlers to Fort Vancouver, the sooner he could return for Samantha and her family.

His entire body ached. His shoulders, his legs. He’d been up for most of the night, worried about Samantha and Micah. He would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to them. He hoped she would follow his advice and go to the mission, but knowing Samantha...

Samantha would do what she wanted to do.

“How long do you think it will take us to reach Fort Vancouver on the river?” Mr. Kneedler asked.

Jack had tried to ask the Indian man the same question but hadn’t gotten an answer. “Maybe two or three days.”

“So we’ll have to stop and camp on the way.”

Jack nodded. They would also have to portage their supplies around the larger rapids, but he would explain that later.

“You need to get some rest,” Mr. Kneedler said.

He shook his head. “I can’t sleep.”

He looked down again at Mrs. Kneedler, resting peacefully by her husband. He hoped they would all make it safely to the fort—the Kneedlers, Samantha, Micah, and even Hiram—but he also knew that life in this world was only a vapor.

Jenny had left his life long before she should have. Samantha and the others might go as well. He’d told Samantha that she had to let go of her father, but he’d fought for Jenny just like Samantha was fighting for her father.

Even though he’d fought hard, there had been nothing he could do to save his wife.

Sometimes you had to let go.

He looked back toward the opening, at the supplies they’d left outside. Then he looked at the two Indians still watching them.

They’d lost five horses on their journey, stolen at night by Indians, he assumed. If these men didn’t kill them, would they steal from them while they slept?

He forced his eyes closed. He couldn’t do everything—get the Kneedlers safe to the fort, watch over their things, go back for Samantha.

It was still hours until nightfall, but he needed to sleep, even if these Indians rummaged through their things, even if they planned to take his life.

If he awoke in the morning, he needed strength to get to the fort and then return for Samantha and her brother.

The cold rain drizzled at first, soaking the pelt that Samantha stretched over her head, and then it assailed her and Micah with torrents of stinging drops, like needles piercing her skin. The sun hadn’t started dipping behind the cliffs yet, but she and Micah were shivering. They kept slipping in the mud, and the oxen were slipping as well as they tried to pull their cart along the path that narrowed again to the riverbank.

It was useless, she decided, to continue slogging through the downpour. If they didn’t stop, they would be too sick to continue in the morning.

Micah helped her set up the tent in the rain, under a giant pine tree that sheltered them from part of the storm. She hauled her gun and their wet things into the tent. Her stomach groaned, hunger clouding her mind. It would be impossible to build a fire tonight, and they couldn’t eat the pinto beans raw.

Surely Jack and the others couldn’t be too far ahead. They would try to sleep and then find the rest of their party tomorrow. Boaz wandered off into the trees and the oxen grazed on the grass. At least some of them could eat tonight.

Micah snuggled up against her. “I’m still hungry, Sam.”

“Me too.” She brushed back his hair like Mama used to do with her when she was a girl. “We’ll find something to eat first thing in the morning.”

A shadow moved on the other side of her canvas. At first she thought it was Boaz, but then she realized it was a person.

She reached for her gun. They didn’t have much left to steal, but she understood what it was like to be desperate.

“What is it?” Micah asked as she moved to the flap.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she whispered. “But I need to check on Boaz.”

Praying silently, she inched back the flap. She was the only one left to care for Micah, and she desperately needed God to send His angels to help keep him safe.

She glanced around the side of the tent and then scanned the gray valley and river in front of them, but there was no one there except George and Abe, who lapped water from the river.

She looked down, and at her feet was some sort of bag made of an animal hide. She opened it, and inside was what the traders had called
pemmican
—a mixture of meat pounded into a powder and mixed with melted animal fat. It may have looked unsavory, but she’d been told that it sustained the trappers for months at time. There was just enough in the bag for two people.

She looked out at the river again and then at the thin line of trees on both sides of her.

Who had brought them food?

“Thank you,” she whispered in case someone was listening.

Her stomach groaned again as she brought the food inside. Micah didn’t even ask where she’d found the food. With a shout of glee, he dove toward the pemmican and ate rapidly.

Boaz returned an hour later, and she hoped he had found food as well. He curled up beside the flap to sleep, and as she tucked a blanket around Micah’s slight body, she thanked God for the messenger He’d sent to provide for them.

Rain seeped under the canvas sides of the tent, puddling up around their bedrolls, but with the pemmican settling in her stomach, exhaustion began to lure her into a deep sleep.

In the morning they would catch up with the others.

Chapter Fifteen

Fog swallowed up the rain as it drifted through the canyon, scaling the cliffs and clinging to the colorful leaves. She and Micah sang together as they rolled up their bedrolls and then the canvas of their tent to pack in their cart. No one out here cared if she sang off-key

They quickly ate the remaining pemmican, and then she urged Micah, Boaz, and the oxen along the path. Jack and the others would likely stop and fish or hunt soon for food. Today they would surely find them on this path.

The gorge was cold, but when the fog lifted, sunshine spilled light over the rocks and trees. She and Micah had plenty of water from the river, and after the sun dried the wood, she would make a fire and cook beans. Their supply of beans could last two or three more days. Then she would buy food from the fort with the gold Papa left them.

Her body ached and her spirit was depleted, but she continued to draw strength from the beauty around her. The Columbia roared and splashed like the frothy milk in Lucille’s pail as it bounded over rocks and logs. Gentle streams meandered beside the mighty river, trickling through the trees and across the narrow path that she, Micah, and Boaz hiked.

The trees dwindled to shrubs along their path, and above them, a waterfall cascaded like a glittering ribbon down the cliff. Until this week, she’d never known that so many shades of color existed in nature. The rich colors of autumn mixed with vivid greens, blazing against the charcoal wall of volcanic rock.

She picked up her skirt and waded through another shallow stream blocking their path. Micah stopped walking in the midst of the stream, staring out at the river.

“Come along,” she prodded.

He shook his head. “I think those are boats.”

Turning, she followed his gaze across the water and saw two rafts paddling down the wide river, traveling west. Fear paralyzed her at first, hoping the Indians didn’t see them, but as she watched the rafts, she slowly realized that there were stark white faces among the copper-colored ones. It was their company, being guided down the river by Indians.

Panicking, she began to wave her arms, trying to shout above the din of the waterfall. “Hello!”

“Hello!” Micah echoed beside her, waving his arms as he jumped up and down in the stream. If only one of them saw her or Micah. If only they could direct their rafts over to the shore...

Jack and the others, they would carry all of them to safety. If they yelled loud enough surely Jack would hear them. But the rafts floated on, her and Micah’s screams drowned out by the roar of the falls.