Where the Lost Wander(63)

“I love you, Two Feet,” she says.

“And I love you, Naomi May. Try not to worry. I’ll be waiting for you.”

The speed at which Wyatt and I travel, my animals loping along like they could run all day, makes me almost giddy. I unstring the dun and race him across the flat, just to feel him go, before swinging back for Wyatt and the mules. It’s a relief to move, and we ride at an almost constant clip. The only stops we make are to change mounts and water up before starting again. The relative ease of the journey, with no wagons to slow me down, is a sobering reminder of what I’m getting into. For the next two and a half months, I will be driving a wagon at oxen speed, Naomi beside me on the seat. That thought makes me grin like I’ve just struck gold, and I let the dun have his head.

We rest for supper at a grassy bend near a cold stream, but we don’t camp. We’ve made good time. The sun sets late this time of year, and we finish the last few miles of our ride several hours before dark.

Fort Bridger—named for Jim Bridger, the mountain man who established it and is purportedly still in residence—is a handful of long cabins made of rough-hewn logs slapped with a bit of mud to keep the wind out of the cracks. The structures are surrounded by a ten-foot wall constructed of the same material. Adjacent to the enclosed square of buildings is a large corral for horses, of which there are many.

But that is all.

I rein in the dun and slow my mules with a soft “Whoa.” Then I just sit, my hands resting on my thighs, looking at the sad state of my destination.

A few dozen tents crowd a single wagon in a clearing on the west side; it looks like a small militia of some sort. A cluster of wickiups, not unlike those of the Shoshoni along the Green, can be seen a ways off, with a few more scattered lodges lining the fort walls. A company has just pulled out, ten wobbling wagons moving away with the same dejection with which I approach.

This is not Fort Laramie. Not by any stretch. There will be no private quarters to rent, no dresses to buy, no shelves brimming with supplies.

“I thought it would be bigger,” Wyatt says, incredulous. “Are we in the right place?”

A board nailed above two tall posts, creating an unimpressive entrance, declares it so.

“We don’t got much, but we got a blacksmith,” boasts a thin man with a wispy gray mustache and an even sparser beard when I inquire within the building that serves as the trading post. Every item on the shelf is priced sky high, and there isn’t a whole lot there.

“I don’t need a blacksmith. I need a wagon,” I say, my heart sinking. “I need a whole outfit.”

“Well . . . that might be a problem. But I can sell you some flour and bacon, some coffee and beans. Oil. I got oil. Some to cook with and some to grease your wheels.”

“I don’t have any wheels.”

“Yeah. Well. I got plenty of cornmeal left and a cookstove. A kettle. A pot. I got two tin cups, two plates, and one spoon too. Some lemon syrup. Odds and ends.”

“And what about the other buildings?”

“The blacksmith. He can sell you some riggings too. A harness. A saddle. There are some bunks in one and a mighty fine stove. That’s not for sale, though. You need a bunk?”

Again the welling despair. I need more than a bunk.

“Vasquez and his missus live there. That last one. Bridger has a room in the bunkhouse too. When he’s here. He ain’t. Don’t know that he’ll be back either. We got the Mormons here makin’ a fuss. Say Bridger’s been sellin’ firewater and gunpowder to the Indians. That is a violation of federal law, they say. Mostly, they just want to buy the place. I got a hundred of ’em camped out there, waiting for Bridger to show up so they can arrest him. Scarin’ all the traders off.”

That explains the small tent city, but it doesn’t help my situation.

“I got a supply wagon coming in the next day or two,” he says. “I’ll have more to sell then. If I was you, I’d get what you need right now before that next train comes in. There will likely be a few more before the season ends. Most of ’em are going to the Salt Lake Valley. Don’t know how many of the others we’ll see.”

“You’ll have one rolling in tomorrow,” I say, grim. I turn away from the shelves and the old trader, looking out into the yard, where Wyatt is watering the animals. A few folks mill about—Indians, Mexicans, and whites alike—but the fort is quiet in the wake of the last train, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got money, but not money to throw away. The prices of the goods on the shelves are ten times what they sell for in St. Joseph. The sad part is desperate folks will pay. I’ve got mules, but I think I’d rather starve than trade one for trail rations. But it’s not going to be just me.

The man behind the bar walks out to stand beside me, wholly unconcerned with the lack on his shelves and my obvious displeasure. “Hey . . . you wantin’ to sell that jack? That is some kind of animal. I got a few mares I wouldn’t mind gettin’ a couple good mules out of. Those big mules bring big money round here. Fur traders and mountain men like the mules.”

“I won’t sell him . . . but if you’ll give me what I need for a fair price—and when I say fair, I mean about a quarter of what you’re selling it for now—I’ll take a look at your mares. If one of them is agreeable to it, I’ll give you stud services for free.”