Where the Lost Wander(73)
NAOMI
When we reach Smiths Fork, two days out of Fort Bridger, we’re able to cross a bridge completed only the year before by some industrious travelers. It is a good deal easier than unloading the wagons and wading through hip-deep water, but Trick and Tumble don’t like it at all and have to be coaxed, along with every other mule in the company. Webb has learned a thing or two from John and shows them how it’s done, his little arms spread wide, trekking back and forth until he can convince them to follow. The grass is green and plentiful at the fork, but the mosquitoes are so thick the animals can’t eat. None of us can, and Abbott presses us to move on.
“There’s only one road he can take, Miss Naomi. He’ll catch us before long. But we do ourselves no good to camp here. No one will rest,” Abbott explains, and the consensus is to move on.
I rip a long strip off the bottom of my tattered, stained yellow dress and wrap it around a tree near the heaviest ruts and leave a message nailed beneath it.
John and Wyatt,
We’ve gone on. We are all well. Mosquitoes bad. Heading to Soda Springs.
Love,
Naomi
We forge on, walking much of the night by the light of the moon, and reach Thomas Fork the next day, eager for sleep and grass and water without mosquitoes floating on the top. We’re moving north along the Bear River, and the valley is lush and green, but the bugs plague us continually. A swarm of grasshoppers descends on us just past Thomas Fork, and we walk with blankets slung over our heads, shrieking and striking at our clothes as they land. The mules like the grasshoppers even less than they liked the bridge, and they kick and shimmy, trying to be free of the horde. The oxen just bow their heads and plod on, their tails swishing like the pendulum on a clock.
Elsie Hines is afraid to ride in the wagon. Her baby could come any day, and she doesn’t want her waters to break. She’s been riding Tumble, who has the smoothest gait, but with the grasshoppers making the mules skittish, she waddles along, even more miserable than the rest of us.
Six days have passed since we left the fort. Six days of praying and looking over my shoulder. We reach Soda Springs, where the water gurgles and spouts like it’s boiling even though it’s cold. In one place, the water shoots straight up into the air with a great rumbling and whistle, and we can hear it and see it from a good ways off. A few of the men experiment a little, setting items of varying weight and size over the opening to see whether the pressure is enough to propel them into the air. Jeb Caldwell puts his saddle over the opening, thinking he’ll ride the stream, and gets flipped like a coin. He doesn’t get hurt, but Elmeda isn’t amused. The water tastes odd but not entirely unpleasant. It bites and bubbles, and Abbott says we can drink it.
“It’s the minerals in the water that makes it taste funny. Some folks like it. They say it soothes the stomach.”
Four miles beyond the soda springs, the range of mountains directly before us ends in an abrupt and jagged point, and the Bear River we’ve been following for miles makes a sharp curve around it and heads back in the direction from whence it came. We’ve made Sheep Rock, where the trail splits again, another parting of ways. North to Fort Hall and the Oregon Trail, straight west to the old California road.
“It’s only noon, but let’s stop and make camp,” Abbott says. “We have a hundred thirty-two miles of dry, hard travel ahead of us, so we’ll take the rest of today to rest the teams and gird up. Plan on pulling out first thing in the morning.”
“We told Wyatt and John we would wait at Sheep Rock,” I protest, trying to maintain my composure.
“I told John we’d take the cutoff at Sheep Rock,” he says, his voice gentle. “But he knows we can’t wait.”
“What if we wait and he doesn’t come?” Mr. Caldwell chimes in. “Then we’ve waited for nothing.”
“He’ll come,” Abbott reassures me, patting my shoulders. “I have no doubt. You watch—he’ll pull in here before tomorrow morning, you mark my words.”
I mark his words, but John doesn’t come, and the train pulls out a few hours after dawn, our teams watered and fed, our barrels filled, and our path set. I leave a note and another strip of my yellow dress tied around a tree. I try not to doubt, but even Ma’s grown pensive.
“They’ll take care of each other,” she says, “just like they did before,” and I nod and try to breathe, doing my best to hold back the tears. We don’t discuss it; we don’t voice our fears or wonder out loud what’s holding them up, but I know Ma’s thoughts are churning too, and she’s saying her prayers, just like I am.
It doesn’t help that my menses have started, soaking my bloomers, chafing my legs, and making it hard to keep clean. I tell myself it’s good that John is gone. Maybe when he returns, my time will have passed, and I won’t have to worry about being close to him the way I want to.
We make ten miles over sage and lava rocks before Abbott blows his horn and veers away from the road, searching for a spring he’s certain isn’t far. We’ve just begun making our circle around a pathetic patch of green a couple of miles off the road when Pa’s wagon hits a rock and busts a wheel, and Elsie Bingham, sitting on the back of Tumble, tells us she’s through.
“I can’t go no farther,” she moans. “I gotta get down.” Her pains have started, and she’s afraid she’ll tumble from the mule. Ma and I help her slide from the saddle and support her as she steadies herself.