A
deal, then. Skye felt uneasy about it. Disease came in the night, murdered the innocent, and crept away to strike others. But what if he led the sick to a place of healing?
He stood there, in that quiet pine-girt valley, aware that Peacock was examining him even as he was examining Peacock. The New England man wore old-style clothing, gray broadcloth knee britches, black cutaway, a stock at the throat, shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, at present tied into a queue, and wire-rimmed, square-lens spectacles that somewhat hid those bright, curious blue eyes. But he had that sturdy Yankee forthrightness about him that Skye liked. There was no subterfuge in this man.
Peacock might be a New England whale oil merchant but he had gotten his sick people from the Atlantic coast to Independence, and then had brought them seven hundred miles west on an overland trail, all on his own. This was no pilgrim, to use a term much favored by the Yanks.
“Just to be clear, Mister Peacock. We will be traveling the
California Trail part of the way, over ground I know, but then we will turn off, go through the Mormon settlements, and plunge into country unknown to me or my wives. I don't know those Indians, mostly Paiutes, nor have I the slightest experience with the Mojave tribe lower down. They don't have the traditions of the plains tribes. The Paiutes are known as masterful camp robbers. I'm telling you this so that you know exactly who and what you're employing.”
“Mister Skye, you're the man we want. You'll receive a hundred in gold now, and a hundred upon delivering us. The second hundred will be held in escrow by Colonel Bullock.”
Skye nodded. “When do we start?”
“At once. This ordeal is weakening my people. So let's be on our way.”
“All right. By the time you're ready there at the fort, we'll be ready too.”
“You mean you can break this camp just like that?”
“Just like that, mate.”
“Come along,” said Colonel Bullock. “When Skye makes an appointment, he keeps it.”
Skye watched the two men trail their horses up the steep grade and vanish into the jack pine forest. Behind him he heard the sigh of falling leather. The women had already unpinned the lodge cover and let it slide down the lodgepoles. It took only a few minutes to load the poles, pack the robes, put the kitchen into parfleches, saddle their stock, and put out the cook fire. Mary lifted the richly quilled and beaded cradle-board bearing the tiny child, and slid it onto her back. The boy peered quietly at his father from within his nest.
Skye clambered onto Jawbone, felt the unruly horse quiver under him. He steered his family up the same anonymous slope taken by the Yankees. Worries crowded his mind. Was
this the dumbest thing he had ever committed himself to? How sick were those people? What sort of courage did they possess? He just had done something he tried never to do: commit without knowing the character of those he would guide into the unknown West.
He would not back out. He had given his word, and now the only course was to make the best of it. He and his wives led the packhorses through the silent jack pines, then down a long grade into the valley of the Laramie River, and at last raised the post, which was hemmed by high bluffs. He and his quiet ladies soon plunged into a plain bustling with wagons, people, livestock, and racing dogs. They stared at Skye; they always did, noting his battered top hat, quilled leather clothing, meaty face, and weathered countenance. And they studied his Indian wives, and this time, they peered at that infant in the cradleboard Mary was carrying over her back. Why did he evoke such silence? Had these Yanks never seen a mixed-blood family before?
Hiram Peacock was waiting near the sutler's store, looking grand in his cutaway. His wagons stood well apart, and there was a strange emptiness surrounding them. Skye knew at once that none of those westering people in the other wagon trains wanted anything to do with a company of sick people who had a lethal disease, and they were giving the New Bedford company a wide berth.
In a swift moment of recognition, Skye knew what he would face in the trail. On the veranda of the store, the usual loungers squinted darkly at Skye and his wives, and at Peacock. Skye ignored them.
“Mister Peacock,” he said, “we're about ready.”
“So are we. I'd like you to meet Enoch Bright, my second-in-command. He's a master mechanic.”
Skye shook hands with a bright-eyed skinny male, who smiled slightly but said not a word. The man wore layers of clothing, though the day was unpleasantly warm. The fellow had big scarred hands, capable hands, Skye thought. The man could probably put a turnip watch together blindfolded.
“I've got the wagon hubs greased,” Bright said.
“I guess we're set, then. I'll check with Colonel Bullock, and we'll be off.”
“He's been paid on your behalf,” Peacock said.
“Good.”
Skye slipped into the store, which now had little left to sell to the migrants, and found Bullock clerking.
“We're on our way, Colonel.”
“Mister Skye, there are things to watch out for, and I am not talking about rattlesnakes or wild Indians.”
Skye smiled and waited.
“I've been listening to this crowd. They're calling it a plague company, sir, and there are plans afoot, whispers, talk of keeping it from grass and water, and maybe things even more sinister. Watch out.”
“I will.”
“Now, there's something else. You've been out in the villages so you haven't any word of it. A war's brewing with the Mormons. The army may move soon. The Saints are resisting federal control. It's all about polygamy and who runs the Utah Territory. Washington thinks it's lost control. There's some hotheads in Utah, and they're raising a militia. And you'll be plunging right through the middle of it. I think you'll be all right, but a word to the wise â¦â³
“I see. Well, we're hardly a menace to the Saints. But hotheads can cause trouble. As always, Colonel, you have gone beyond all friendship on our behalf.”
The colonel straightened himself up, his gaze level, his beard jutting forward. “Godspeed,” he said. “And mind my words.”
Skye passed the silent bunch on the veranda, well aware of the thoughts teeming in the heads of that crowd, and headed across the no-man's-land to his new company. He beckoned his ladies to join him, and soon the New Bedford Infirmary Company was joined by Skye and his wives.
“It's time to introduce you,” Peacock said. “Come. We'll start with the sick wagon.”
Within the light wagon were four young people, presumably the sickest, lying side by side, with just enough room. Forward were bedding and gear.
Skye approached, while his wives hung back several yards.
“This young lady, on the right, is my daughter Samantha,” Peacock said. “She's thirteen and eager to be on the trail. She's a very brave traveler. Samantha, this is our guide, Mister Skye, and his family, Victoria and Mary Skye, and that's North Star in the cradleboard.”
Samantha nodded. She was obviously seriously ill, her young features gray. She clutched a bloodstained rag. She wore a grimy gray dress and woolen stockings. Even as they stood there, Samantha began coughing, and heaved up bloody sputum that she wiped away. Skye couldn't imagine how he would get this girl to a desert place six or seven hundred miles away.
Then the girl smiled up at him, her gaze upon him as if he were her guardian angel, and Skye resolved then and there that somehow, some way, he would take Samantha to a desert place and see her healed.
“And this is my neighbor Peter Sturgeon. He's nigh onto twelve, and he plans to be a cooper. He's got the penchant for
it. But life's given him a little detour now. Peter, this is Mister Skye, and over there, Mary and Victoria.”
The boy was gaunt, with great black hollows under his eyes, and had a feverish look about him.
“You'll get us there,” the young man said hoarsely, and Skye knew that the consumption had ruined his vocal cords.
“Now these are Grant and Ashley Tucker, neighbors of ours, and twins. The pair are twelve, and they're going to get well together, aren't you?”
They were brother and sister, and both had that gaunt gray look of a consumptive in the final stages of the disease. They were each wrapped in a brown blanket.
The twins, emaciated and miserable, stared up at Skye silently. Skye hardly knew which of these four they would be burying first.
The other patients were either sitting on the lowered tailgate of the supply wagon or standing patiently.
The Skyes met Anna Bennett, an eighteen-year-old beauty with chestnut hair and a direct assessing gaze, sitting on the tailgate. Eliza Bridge and Mary Bridge joined Anna on the tailgate.
An older youth standing nearby proved to be Sterling Peacock. He looked like his father, but for the dark patches under his eyes.
“Sterling is my son, my heir if anything goes wrong, and is an able surveyor. But now he has to lick this disease. We're going to get you back on your feet, aren't we, Sterling?”
“I'm already getting better,” Sterling said hoarsely. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Skye.”
But then a cough seized him, and he spat up blood into a pink-stained rag. And when he stopped coughing, he had a question for Victoria.
“Are you going to heal us with Indian medicine?” he asked hoarsely.
“Hell no,” she said.
“I thought Indians have medicines for everything.”
Victoria grinned. “Hey, I got stuff to try, eh? Goddamn white men, they don't know nothing.”
Hiram Peacock listened intently, and then smiled.
Two ambulatory young men, Lloyd and David Jones, both in their twenties, completed the entourage. The Jones brothers seemed the healthiest, and indeed were sharing the burden of making and breaking camp, and acting as teamsters.
But there was a long road ahead.
“Are you ready, sir?” Peacock asked.
“If you are, Mister Peacock.”
Victoria and Mary sat their ponies quietly, letting Skye lead this small, fragile party westward, away from the safety of the fort and into the unknown. Skye turned back to watch the party form behind him, his women and his packhorses bringing up the rear. The Jones boys steered the teams, Lloyd beside the foremost oxen, David beside the pair of Morgans drawing the light wagon. Peacock and Bright walked. A stray cloud threw a deep shadow over them just as they were abandoning Fort Laramie, but the sun still shone on the crowd before the sutler's store, who were all watching with reproachful silence. No one waved.
H
iram Peacock waited until his entourage was well clear of Fort Laramie and working through the black hills before engaging Mister Skye. The guide rode ahead a little, his battered top hat shielding his weathered face from the summer sun, his skin stained dark by a lifetime lived outside. That blue roan devil was a menace and Peacock intended to heed Skye's warning to steer clear of it.
Still, questions seethed in his mind: who exactly was this man who had been entrusted with the life and safety of this company of the sick? Maybe Skye was equally curious, because he soon dismounted and left Jawbone entirely free, not even holding a rein, and settled in beside Peacock, his stocky legs laboring a bit to keep up. Jawbone spurted ahead, intending to lead this parade.
“Why, Mister Skye, I was hoping for your counsel. I should like to acquaint myself with your practices on the road, and what you think is wise policy in this country.”
“Well, Mister Peacock, we've a mutual curiosity. It happens I have a question or two. There's something I need to know.”
Peacock nodded.
“Did you have trouble on the trail before you got here?”
“You mean about the disease? Not really. I made a point of informing the companies ahead and behind that we had invalids with us. Generally, they appreciated it, and gave us a wide berth at night when we all were camping.”
“Did any company give you trouble?”
“Oh, now and then. One captain threatened to shoot our stock unless we moved far from the spring where we were staying. I moved at once. I understand how people feel about a deadly disease.”
“Were those all the threats? Any serious threat? To hurt you, to drive you off the road?”
Peacock pondered it. “No, not that. But some were unfriendly, especially the ones in a hurry who passed close by when we were burying one of our children. They always wanted to know what caused the death, and I always told them.”
“That reminds me, Mister Peacock. You introduced us to ten young people with the disease. Is that the whole roster? Are you or Mister Bright sick?”
“Mister Skye, I may be the next one. I thought I had escaped even though my beloved Emma lies in her grave and all my children have it. But about the time we started from Independence, I found tiny red specks in hand whenever I coughed, and I suspect the clock may be ticking for me, though I have no real proof of it. I feel well enough. Two buried. Ten ill. Only Enoch seems to resist it. With that pressing on me, I hope you'll forgive me for being in a hurry. The sooner we settle in the desert, the better chance we have.”
“I'm glad you told me. I'll want to keep my family apart. On the road to Laramie did anyone stalk you?”
“Stalk? Us? Why, sir, even those who didn't like the company of invalids didn't stalk us. Why do you ask?”
“Because we're being stalked, and have been since Fort Laramie.”
“Stalked, sir? I've seen no one.”
“Across the river a rider appears now and then and vanishes, but the man is not moving faster or slower than we are.”
“Stalked? Why would anyone stalk us?”
“In that wagon is a deadly cargo.”
“What would they do?”
“We'll have to see. I imagine before long we'll know.”
“Are we in danger?”
Skye sighed. “Let me deal with that.”
“When did you see this stalker?”
“I didn't. My older wife, Victoria, signaled me.”
“Signaled? I never knew it.”
Skye laughed suddenly, a great rumble rising out of his barrel-shaped torso. “That comes from a long marriage.”
“Is this stalker dangerous? What is he up to?”
“When I have an opportunity, I'll find out.”
“Find out?”
“I'll catch him at it and see.”
“Mister Skye, I don't want trouble, not with so many sick people.”
“Sometimes the best way to avoid trouble is to confront it, Mister Peacock. Now, I need a few more things from you. How often do we rest? When do those young teamsters need a break?”
“Every hour or so. Their lungs don't afford them much air, and they tire.”
“What about the ones sitting on the tailgate?”
“They sometimes rotate with those lying in the green wagon. Even sitting on a tailgate wears them down to nothing.”
“And the sickest?”
“I sometimes carry them in my lap, sir. I take my turn on the tailgate.”
“And when you rest, do other companies pass you by?”
“Often they do. I try to find a place well off the trail where we can let them pass us easily.”
Skye seemed to absorb all that. The man certainly had questions and wanted answers.
“Tell me more about this sickness, sir. We had lungers in England and in the Royal Navy, lots of'em, and mostly they died.”
“The agent, or exciting cause, is unknown, Mister Skye. But it causes the growth of tubercules, or hard capsules containing the diseased flesh within the body, and not just the lungs. The disease can lodge anywhere. It often lodges in the mouth and throat but most any other place is possible, and this ulcerates the flesh. Some people resist and live quite a while; others succumb swiftly, unable to breathe, coughing their life away. The worst is called miliary consumption, and it's terrible. That person is doomed to die within a few weeks. That's how we lost a boy, Ephraim, on the road. He went straight downhill. It's a mystery, why God permits it.”
“Do you blame God?”
“He leaves my prayers unanswered, Mister Skye.”
“And what heals, if anything?”
“In Europe, they claim cold alpine air does it, and they flock to spas in the Alps. Here ⦠all the evidence points to the desert. Dry, warm, and a lot of bed rest. There is no other known cure. No herbs or teas or roots or powders. No mustard
plasters or emetics or cold compresses. No magical drafts that one may sip and be healed. No exorcisms, no bell, book, and candle. No dealings with the devil. Only the desert air, sir, neither too hot nor too chill, dry air, and a warm cot. That's why I'm bringing these desperate young people two thousand miles from their homes.”
Skye pointed. The stalker sat his horse in deep shade across the river, mostly shielded by juniper brush.
“Know him?”
“I don't have the eyes to tell you that, sir.”
“We'll find out what he's about.”
They reached a widening of the narrow trail, and Skye pulled his party aside and up a gulch a way to clear the path for companies that followed. Immediately the two young men, Lloyd and David Jones, dropped to the ground and stretched out as if dead. Skye knew he shouldn't be shocked, but he was. The youngsters sitting on the tailgate curled up on the ground, suddenly oblivious to life around them. It had been all they could manage to sit up for an hour or so. Skye hastily studied the area for snakes and thought to warn Peacock about curling up on the earth before checking it out.
He hiked back to the green wagon, admiring its light hickory construction, and peered in on the sickest four, who lay in the shade of the bowed canvas top, staring up at him from fever-blasted faces. Skye had the sinking feeling that this was a fool's mission; these children should be safe abed somewhere, anywhere but here, with hundreds of miles of lonely and dangerous trail ahead of them.
Enoch Bright was checking the Morgans for fistulas and anything that might hamstring them, running a knowing hand over the horses' withers, flanks and legs, pasterns and stifles.
“Are they in good shape, Mister Bright?”
“They're Morgans, sir. They'll do what's required. Justin Morgan should get a gold medal.”
“That's a fine wagon.”
“Yes it is, three hundred pounds lighter than any of the same size. I used hickory and ash, strong as steel. See those oversized wheels? They'll get our patients through three feet of water.”
The wagon was a work of genius, and its maker was along on this trip, which consoled Skye. Things broke down on the road.
“Are those Jones brothers all right?”
“No, none of them are all right. But they carry on. They get more air flat on their back like that than curled up. It's air they're wanting. Ten minutes like that and they'll have some air in'em.”
“Should they rest rather than walk?”
“They all should rest.”
“Will this trip kill them? That's what I'm trying to say.”
“If it doesn't, something else will.”
“Mister Bright, you have a wisdom of your own.”
A wagon company rounded a slope and rolled into sight, two men on saddle horses were leading, followed by four wagons pulled by ox teams, and behind them a gaggle of scrawny cows, herded by children. The leaders saw Skye's party resting upslope from the trail and hesitated.
But Hiram Peacock headed full sail straight toward them, his cutaway coat flapping open as he walked. Skye thought he ought to follow. There could be trouble.
“Gentlemen,” yelled Peacock, “we're a company with sick people in it, and we trust that you'll keep a safe distance.”
The lead men, their faces shaded under wide-brimmed
slouch hats, eyed the whale oil merchant silently and studied the wagon and cart drawn apart from the trail.
Then they studied Skye, and observed his family, and finally the youths sprawled on the ground and the others slumped below the tailgate.
Skye was close enough now to see those faces hidden in the shade of their hat brims, and he knew these were two of Manville's guides. And there could be trouble.
“Lungers, eh?” said The Cork. “Someone ought to shoot the whole lot.”