The Promised Land (Destiny's Dreamers Book 2) (5 page)

Maggie smiled into her pot, then frowned once more at her fifty-cent a pint flour. Nothing came easily or cheaply in this life.

Grandma Richman wandered up next, trailed by a passel of youngsters. She waved them off like so many flies. “Shoo, now! Jamie’s over yonder with the Kreller girls. Go torture them for a while.’’ She sank down next to Maggie, peering into the pot and flour bag.

“See you sprung for some of Laramie’s finest. Too bad you ain’t got an egg or two to mix up with that. It’d make some mighty fine stew dumplings.’’

“I’m going to make some anyhow. My Jamie found a bird’s nest yesterday. There were half a dozen eggs almost big as pullets. I’m just afraid what I’ll find when I crack them open.’’

“Couldn’t be worse than them weevils. You’d better eat that flour fast afore the bugs consume it all.’’

“My thoughts precisely.’’

Maggie leaned against the wagon and gave Grandma a closer inspection. She was beginning to look her age. The steel gray bun had gone white. Lines had been added to the woman’s face like so many miles travelled.

“I see Jube’s got the splint off his arm. It took me by surprise. We haven’t been talking much lately.’’

“I guess we been kind of caught up betwixt my troubles and yours. You came through them Injuns mighty fine. Better than I did at the fort today.’’

Maggie brushed hair from her eyes. “What happened?’’

“I headed straight for that boor-gee-wa fellow, the Frenchman in charge.’’

“Mr. Bourdeaux?’’

“Guess so. I poked my head right into his quarters, and seed he didn’t have naught for furnishings, save a few doubtful women. Just a bunch of bear skins on the floor and a big old wardrobe. I told him he needed some first class furniture so’s he could live like the bigshot he was, and impress the lights outta them Spanish ladies.’’ She sighed

“He wasn’t buying? Even for the
ladies
?’’ Maggie’s mind flew back to the entrancing creature she’d met so briefly. What kind of life could there be at Laramie for a woman like that?

“We bartered, right enough. But I ended up with enough cloth to cover the seats of only half my younguns, a little flour and a slab of bacon. That’ll take us maybe into next week. He’s gonna send his men for my grandma’s dresser afore we leave at dawn tomorrow.’’ Grandma snuffled, rubbed her nose on one voluminous sleeve and trudged off.

Johnny’s curiosity brought him over from his white-top. “What’s going on here? That’s the second female that’s come by close to tears.’’ He glanced around. “Oh, oh. Here’s a third. I think I’ll go borrow one of Irish’s cheroots. It might chase away more than mosquitoes.’’

Hazel was closing in. “I told Max, Maggie.’’

Maggie handed her friend a mostly clean handkerchief and waved her into a sitting position. “Told him what?’’

“You know, about~’’ Hazel snuffled into the cloth. “I’ve been so full of it, guess I thought everybody knew. Oh, Maggie, I’m going to have another bay-bee!’’ Pent up tears finally flowed.

Gwen approached and took one look at Hazel. She shoved the sieve into Maggie’s hand and beat a quick retreat.

With distaste written all over her face, Maggie attacked the flour, internally chiding herself. Why couldn’t she handle a little thing like weevils? Here were these other women with real problems, and she was acting like some city girl who’d never seen a bug before. She dug a cup into the bag, but stopped stock still, her hand halfway to the sieve.

TOM tom tom tom, TOM tom tom tom.

The Indians had officially begun another night of revelry. Evidently they had to gear themselves up for facing troubles just the same as white folks. It made her feel marginally better, and brought the Indians closer within the realms of humanity.

“Another baby is not the end of the world, Hazel. Maybe you’ll give Max a son this time. He’d probably like that.’’

“He’d love it. But I don’t feel right about this one. I mean, my body doesn’t, somehow. The girls felt right when I began to carry them, and straight on through to their birthing.’’

“It could just be all the rocks and dryness we’ve been travelling through, Hazel. More bounteous surroundings give a person a fuller feeling.’’

“And there weren’t any trees at the fort, Maggie! Nothing green!’’ She was bawling again. “I’d been so longing for a touch of home!’’

Maggie reached out a hand to touch Hazel’s. Homesickness was running rampant through the train. Laramie was supposed to have cured that. It was supposed to have given them all strength for the next bad piece of trail. It had only made things worse.

“Would you like to eat with us tonight? The pot’s big enough. I’ll just throw more in. And after, we’ll get Johnny to start some music. We really ought to give those Indians a little competition.’’

Hazel dabbed at her eyes gratefully. “I haven’t even started our fire yet. I just couldn’t face up to it. Being with you all might take my mind off things.’’

“It might make the new baby happy, too. Like he’s got something joyous to grow toward.’’

Hazel blew her nose. “Bless you. Let me just go and gather up my family.’’

Johnny finally judged it safe to come out of hiding.

“What’ve you got me into, Meg? I thought maybe we might get some private time tonight to talk.’’

Maggie sighed.

“I love you, Johnny, even though we haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. There’s nothing I’d rather do than talk things out properly. But in this world you can’t always do what you want most. Gwen and Sam are searching for bliss. Hazel’s already had too much of it. Grandma Richman’s just looking to survive.’’

Her eyes moved across the circle. “And there’s Ruth Winslow, acting like she’s lost her last friend in the world and is ready to throw her Bible into the supper fire. Laramie obviously didn’t come up to her expectations, either. And where was the Reverend today? I didn’t see him at the fort at all. It was Ruth standing in line at the smithy for repairs. Can’t that man ever give her any support? At the least I expected to see him standing on a box in the middle of the square preaching to the fallen women.’’

Johnny lowered himself next to her, grinding out the last bit of his unaccustomed cigar.

“Can’t you forget about your orphans for just a little while? What about us?’’

Maggie sank back from the pot onto her haunches. “I’ll be satisfied to keep you with me for another hundred years, body and soul.’’

He reached for her lips, touching them gently, sweetly. “That’s asking far more than anyone else.’’

“I’ll compromise and try to be content right now if you would only take on the chore of cracking Jamie’s eggs into this bowl. I can’t face any more broken dreams today.’’

The whole train was held up the next morning waiting for men from the fort to come and unload Grandma Richman’s cherry chest. They arrived at last, but took their good time completing the job, cussing and complaining as if they were unused to manual labor. When the fort’s buckboard was on its way back to the gates of Laramie and the bourgeois’ apartments, when Grandma’s wagon was reloaded, the Chandler party finally pulled out. As the last of the train wended its way from the shining walls of
civilization
, none could resist looking back a final time.

Maggie gaped at what she saw. It wasn’t the occasional group of Sioux who were still straggling in to their rendezvous that so surprised her. It was what came from beyond.

Beyond was another wagon train of emigrants. And it was a big one~twice the size of theirs~and still growing like a serpent with an endless tail in the haze across the plain.

Chandler’s train worked harder than ever that day. It stopped a shorter time for the noon break. It made camp later in the afternoon. No one admitted they were in competition with the new party, but it was so. They were in competition for the dry grass and sparse water ahead.

On the second day out from Laramie, in mid-afternoon, they met up with a few lone travellers coming from the West.

The forms took shape slowly on the horizon. At first the small group was taken for Indians, perhaps scouts from one of the tribes in enmity with the Sioux. Where there were Indian scouts, there could be unfriendly hunting or war parties close behind. The men pulled out their rifles and walked with them, but the wagons kept moving. Eventually they could see that the group ahead was not Indian at all, for it was followed by pack animals.

The Reverend Josiah Winslow strained his eyes harder than the others to discern details. Could this be his fate coming to meet him? Danite scouts from Brigham Young? He fingered his silver pistols expectantly as the two groups finally came together, East meeting West.

The train stopped. Everyone gathered around the newcomers, anxious to learn what they could of the land ahead firsthand. Maggie stared at the grizzled old-timer in charge. Winslow stared, too, then breathed once more and dropped his fingers from the guns. He was saved yet again.

The old-timer must have been in the wilderness forever. His buckskins were shiny with grease, the leggings japanned a fine black enamel from constant daily use. Word filtered through the crowd of men that this was the legendary Jim Bridger himself! Maggie pushed with her children to get a better view and stared with awe at the man whose exploits had gained him notoriety even back home. Finally she began to pick up bits of the conversation. His voice was thick with disuse, but rich and strong.

“ . . . Mighty pleasant to hear the busy hum of our own language again. Ain’t had much use for it these past weeks. Come over from California, the hard way.’’

Johnny was questioning him. “Did you hear anything of the conflict between the states and Mexico while you were in California?’’

Bridger shrugged and grinned. “Don’t pay much mind to foolish politickin’. Last I heard, Fremont was settin’ up to make a big man of hisself out there. Took over some unprotected towns in the name of the U.S. of A. Can’t think what the Mexicans thought. It’s mighty easy country out there in California, and mostly the local Spanish folks just let things slide.’’

He’d dismounted from his horse and was giving it its head near some scruffy buffalo grass. “Wouldn’t happen to have any coffee about? It’s been a coon’s age since I tasted a cup.’’

Maggie could see Chandler thinking hard. It was not nearly time to call a halt for the day, but they did have in hand someone who could give them critical information about the land ahead, tips that might make the difference between life and death. Finally decided, he motioned for camp to be set up.

Maggie was the first to get a fire going and start up a fresh pot of coffee. She knew Johnny wanted a better chance to talk to this man. She’d barely presented Bridger and his party with a boiling pot of the drink when chaos started in again. Bridger had been talking about buffalo.

“Sure I seen some. Nice herd, not five miles ahead. Was moving fast away from the trail, though. Seen it happen afore. They’ve already smelt you coming.’’ He sipped at the scalding brew and touched his finger to his slouch hat in Maggie’s direction. “Plumb refreshin’, ma’am.’’

Sam plunged in. “We be a little short on meat. Any chance of us catching up with them?’’

“If’n you got some good, fresh horses. But you got to outsmart ‘em now they knows you be here. They ain’t the brightest of creatures, but got self-preservation instincts nevertheless.’’

“How would you go about doing that?’’ Johnny asked.

“Use a huntin’ maneuver called `ringing’. It’s good for wild horses, too. Gotta circle them, all around, from a far enough distance so’s they don’t suspect, then move in slow and keep headin’ off their escape paths till they get tired out. Won’t be headin’ too much further west, this particular herd, ‘cause the Injuns done started in settin’ prairie fires from that end to confine ‘em. I just passed through a couple days of smoke haze on that account. Be headin’ south, the buffalo are.’’ He noticed the fire of interest in Johnny’s eyes. “Ever caught you any?’’

“Three.’’

“Ain’t bad for a easterner. Might be talked into a little hump meat myself.’’

“You’d go with us, sir?’’ Johnny’s question was rife with excitement.

“Ain’t nobody ever called me `sir’. Name’s Jim, son. And my half-breed pony is clean fed up with trekkin’. Him and me both could stand a little excitement.’’

That cinched it. Maggie watched her husband and the other men race to prepare their best horses. They were little boys again, off to hunt with the master. She fervently prayed Bridger would bring them luck. It took a lot of meat to keep a hundred people going strong. More to the point, she prayed that Johnny would control his new inner excitement and return unharmed.

The hours passed slowly for the women and children left behind. There were endless chores to catch up with, but Maggie found herself turning her glance again and yet again toward the southwest where the hunters had disappeared. It was not till long after nightfall that they heard the sounds of returning horses. Maggie had given up and was dozing in the caravan with her children. She quickly pulled a shawl around her shoulders and went out to replenish her fire.

The men straggled in slowly on exhausted mounts. But on the rump of each horse, and on pallets dragged behind, were slabs of buffalo meat. Maggie watched with growing excitement until Johnny finally appeared near the end of the group, riding on one side of Bridger. His horse was laden, too. She rushed up.

“What happened?’’

His grin was big enough to light up the night. “I learned a few things about hunting this day. How to look for buffalo traces, and elk beds, and a fair amount about butchering and packing, too.’’ He slid off his weary horse and began to relieve it of its heavy load.

“Jim taught us how to make carrying sacks from the skins right there at the kill, and he’s going to cook up a special recipe for us tonight!’’

Maggie’s eyes passed on to the older man who was obviously enjoying his role as mentor.

“Got you a bright young man there, missus. Ready to learn an’ easy to teach. Give me a season or two, could make a decent mountain man outten him.’’

Maggie’s response was quick. “Consider yourself welcome to stop by and continue the lessons anytime you’re in Oregon, Mr. Bridger.’’

He chuckled. “Smart lady to get your hooks in first. Just like a few mama grizzlies I been up against.’’ He dismounted himself. “Time to start in crackin’ them buffalo bones. Had a little treat of warm buffalo brains out by the kill, but it hardly whetted my appetite. Got a yen for some `trapper’s butter’, an’ I’ll make you some soup like you never yet et. Got your fires up, Missus?’’

Maggie couldn’t help but smile as she led Bridger to her camp. The years of wilderness had not blunted the old man’s innate sense of humor. And Johnny’s reputation would be soaring again now that Bridger had chosen their fire at which to sup. She took a minute to wake Jamie from his sleep. The boy should not miss the doings. It would be a story he could tell his own children: the night he ate supper with Jim Bridger.

Maggie watched carefully as the trapper flagellated buffalo bones with his hatchet, then scooped out the marrow within. He kept a bit aside for his `butter’, but tossed the rest, over a pound, into a gallon of water he’d instructed her to heat almost to boiling over the fire. While the hump~the most tender part of the buffalo~was being broiled next to it, Bridger carefully added to the pot blood he’d saved from the cavity of the animal. Finally he tossed in quantities of salt and black pepper. Soon it was the consistency of a rice soup and pronounced ready to eat. Tin cups were passed around and everyone tasted of the strangely rich concoction.