Where the Lost Wander(28)

I do not tell him about Naomi May or the pictures she draws. To speak of her would be to admit that she is the reason I cannot make myself return, and so I simply tell him I will send word at Fort Laramie, at Fort Bridger, and again when I arrive at my journey’s end. I reassure him that I have plenty of money; I never travel far without it. It is the fear of being caught unprepared, at the mercy of fate and a friendless world. It is the fear of finding myself completely alone. At the bottom of the letter, I sign my name.

To Jennie I report on Abbott’s well-being and his desire to keep me on the train all the way to California. I tell her the government is giving away land in Oregon. They’re giving it away to lure emigrants across the country to settle it—320 acres to a single man, 640 acres if he’s married. I’m not sure they’ll give it to an Indian; maybe they’ll only give me half. Maybe I’ll go to Oregon.

I don’t know if Jennie or my father will be fooled by my talk of land. It’s never been land that interests me, or farming, or even space, though I think I’d like it well enough. They know I am happiest with a handful of mules, a dozen good mares, and a few jack donkeys that don’t turn their noses up at a horse’s hindquarters. Breeding mules is what I know, and I’ve always felt a sort of kinship with the beasts. They can’t reproduce; a mule will never pass down a pedigree. No posterity, no bloodlines, one of a kind, every time. Created by a mother and a father that don’t belong together, mules are bred for strength and labor, and that is all. I don’t need to belong, despite what my father thinks. I’d take a mule over a man any day.

I don’t tell Jennie about the deaths or the hard days either. I do not mention the cholera or the color of Naomi’s eyes. I don’t tell her about the Pawnee camp and the hardship there. I do not tell her how hopeless it made me feel. I simply tell her I am well, and I end my letter with the last thing she said to me, that love is the only thing worth the suffering, and if I know Jennie, she’ll read between the lines. She’ll know I’ve met someone that I can’t part with.

I do not know if I love Naomi . . . not yet. It seems to me people make the admission too lightly and tumble head over feet down the hills to chase it. I am not ready for that, but I am falling. She is like a speck in the distance—something so far away and unknown that I can’t quit staring, trying to identify what I’m seeing.

I’d take a mule over a man any day . . . but Naomi May is another proposition altogether.

NAOMI

“We need to cross over to the north side of the Platte,” Mr. Abbott informs us as the day begins. “Captain Dempsey says there’s less sickness on the other side, although word is it’s bad all the way to Fort Laramie. Worst they’ve ever seen. We’re going to have to cross eventually. I say we do it now.”

The Platte is a mile wide, if not more, and on an average day, it isn’t more than hip high at the deepest parts. But it lures you in with all its shallow innocence. Mr. Abbott says he’s seen men and mules wade out across and suddenly be slammed by a rush of water barreling toward them from rains and runoff from mountains a thousand miles away. He says sometimes you can see the water a few minutes before it swells, but even then, the river is so wide that once you’re out in it, you can’t get out of the way. And the bottom is quicksand. If you stop or your animals balk, the wheels of the wagons promptly sink to the axles. Mr. Abbott says the Platte swallows oxen whole. It is grueling to cross no matter where or when you attempt it, but most of us think Abbott is right. It must be crossed eventually, and when Captain Dempsey says the cholera is worse on the south side, it’s reason enough to ford it now.

Though there is a great deal of grumbling, discontent, and genuine fear about crossing a river so wide, when Mr. Abbott makes the decision, the company rushes to prepare their wagons. The company has been carved down to forty wagons and fifty fewer people by death and desertion. The Hastingses, with their big wagon and their funny horse-drawn carriage, have not abandoned the trail, despite Mr. Abbott’s prediction. They’ve complained bitterly, along with a few other families (including the Caldwells, who have fared better than most), but they have not turned back. Mr. Caldwell got wind that John is continuing on with the train. He’s been whispering in Pa’s ear and stirring up trouble, and he’s already pulled me aside to warn me about being “dragged off by the half breed.” I told him John doesn’t want to drag me off, but if he did, I’d go willingly. It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, I suppose, but I am too weary to abide him or his opinions.

We cross about ten miles west of Fort Kearny, where the river is narrowest and the sandbars sit like miniature islands in the coffee-colored sludge. I overhear John telling Webb that the Platte is worse than the Missouri because it must be forded and not swum, and each step threatens to suck you under.

John doesn’t waste any time and puts Webb and Will on Trick and Tumble, attaching their leads to Dame and his string of mules. He leads them the way he did on the Missouri, showing them what he expects before he returns to the banks to coax them into the water.

“Keep going, boys. Hang tight, and don’t panic,” he says, and Webb and Will obey, murmuring softly, “Go, mules, go,” as Trick and Tumble rush through the waters, the silty bottom sucking at their hooves.

“Attaboy, Trick,” Webb encourages, like it’s all just a grand adventure. Will is a little more cautious, but Tumble trots through the water behind John and Dame, and they make it across without mishap, then wait for us on the far side.