Between Earth & Sky (7 page)

Your Loving Sister,

Abigail

August 4, 1872

Dear Maggie,

At the last minute the water commissioner raised the price we were to pay for water rights, and we were unable to purchase them. But we did manage to use a few of the ditches, pumping rain water we collected and what we could carry. There was more rain than usual in July, and so we have a harvest of sorts.

Each evening I put the children to bed just before sunset and join Clayton in the field. We pull corn cobs from their stalks or yank bean plants from the ground until dark. The sun sets in the mountains to the west of us, streaking the sky with every shade of red and pink, turning the mountains a deep purple. The only sounds are the rustling of the corn or beans and the low hum of insects. Sometimes it seems the world has stopped. Then Clayton calls to me and says we should go to bed so that we can start again at sunrise.

The beans and corn and potatoes will last us much of the winter. There are also tomatoes, grapes, cucumbers, and squash. Amy goes out to the garden near the house just after she wakes, sits on the dirt, and eats whatever she can reach.

Dr. Mayfield returned recently from a town in northern New Mexico, where he is thinking about setting up his practice. He said it is a growing town with plenty of people, but he is in love with this valley, the river and the mountains. Yesterday evening he came by with a string of fish he had caught, which were most delicious. Clayton says this is the place for him even if the mines did fail. He and Dr. Mayfield have planned a hunting trip next weekend if the rest of our crops are in. There are all kinds of antelopes, fox, deer, wild sheep, and rabbits in the mountains. You must come for a long visit, and soon, now that our ranch is beginning to prosper!

Your Sister,

Abigail

September 19, 1872

Dearest Maggie,

Last week Clayton left with a wagon load of goods for the mines some miles north of here. He has been offered employment there and will most likely stay on an additional month to earn the wage they are paying out, which is good. Mr. John Deering, who has taken a piece of land about ten miles from here, rode out with Clayton to get work. Clayton has assured me he will send word once he arrives. If the work is good and he intends to stay the winter, I will join him with the children next month.

Mr. Deering's wife is anxious to go and see the camps, for she imagines they will be more exciting than living on a farm in the desert. I have tried to describe the type of excitement that fills the camps, but she persists in her curiosity about them. If her husband would let her, I believe she would leave their house and move into a tent tomorrow. She is friendly, if a little naive. She does not believe a lady should learn to use a gun and counts on her eleven-year-old son to protect her. Ten miles is a long way to go with two small children. Still, I enjoy our talk of dress patterns and chicken raising and schooling. I have already made the journey several times.

Days pass when I see no one but the Mexican women who live near by. They are heavy-set, all of them that I have met, and dark-skinned, with black hair and eyes. They speak very little English. Mrs. Deering complains she hired a Mexican woman as a housekeeper and found her unreliable. She says she has heard they are worse than the Negroes. When the Mexican field workers get tired of their work, they just get on their horses and ride off, even if it is early in the afternoon. At the end of the week, they still expect a full week's pay, and it is hard arguing with them when they spit out streams of Spanish.

Our only other visitor is Dr. Mayfield, who has been kind enough to ride over every few days to check on us. Yesterday he helped Amy catch a horned toad to keep as a pet. She has become fond of goat's milk mixed with her porridge in the mornings and recently took over the milking of Sybil, the goat, a gentle animal who would never bite but sometimes attempts to wander away before Amy has finished. Last night I made a sweet potato pie, and we ate it with a cup of the milk.

I heard from Sally recently; both she and Bea send letters at least twice a year. Sally has two boys now along with Rachel and reports they are all healthy. Her husband has gone north for a few months to earn money logging, while she and her little ones live with the Sterns until his return.

I have nearly given up writing to Mother, as my letters are never answered. Tell her that both of the children are well and that our crops have met with some success. I will send you a few of the seeds from the peppers we dried!

Your Loving Sister,

Abigail

November 4, 1872

Dearest Maggie,

George Michael has been sick three days now. His throat is all red and he has a bright rash all along his arms and back. Dr. Mayfield fears it is scarlet fever. He stayed with us part of the afternoon yesterday, giving every kind of medicine, and would take nothing for it.

I still have no word from Clayton, and it has been two months. I told Dr. Mayfield my fear that Clayton is hurt somewhere, and he said John Deering got back a few days ago and he would ride over to ask what the news is. I cannot see why Clayton would be gone this long with no word sent back, but there is every kind of danger on the open road through the desert, and the mining towns are so full of killings that many go unnoticed.

Your Sister,

Abigail

November 7, 1872

Dearest Maggie,

At just an hour past dawn, little George passed the crisis, and I know now, Sister, that he will live. Yesterday evening I was sure we would lose him. His temperature had risen, and he was so weak he could not drink anything. Dr. Mayfield stayed the night, and I am certain George Michael would not be alive this morning if Dr. Mayfield had not been here. He had a bottle of syrup and gave it to George Michael liberally, also quinine. All night I rubbed his arms and legs with alcohol and applied mustard packs, until the fever was drawn out.

Shortly after the fever broke, I walked outside to wash the used linens at the pump and fell down on my knees to thank God. When I stood again, my hands and knees were coated with red dust, as we have not had rain for several weeks. But I did not care. I wiped my face with this earth, grateful that it had not taken another child from me, unsure whether or not my husband is buried somewhere in it.

When I turned towards the house, I saw that Dr. Mayfield stood beside the door, watching me. He took my hands and placed them against his shirt so that he too was covered with dust. I pressed myself against him and we two stood like that, touching, as the air turned from darkness to a pale, palpable gray.

I should not have kissed him, should not have let myself stay there with him all that time it took the sun to stain the horizon. I did not mean to, Maggie. You must not tell a word of this. It was my exhaustion. I could not stand to lose another of my babies and Clayton all at once.

I do not remember who was the first to pull away. By then, the mountains were visible against the pale, wide sky, and the earth that lay all around us had turned yellow and brown.

Your Sister,

Abigail

December 4, 1872

Dear Maggie,

It has been three months, and still no word of Clayton. Dr. Mayfield has ridden to all the nearby ranches and inquired about him, but no one knows what has happened. John Deering has said that Clayton went on to another mine where they were digging. Much of the area is said to be rich in coal. I wait and pray for news.

I do not understand myself anymore. I have continued to encourage Dr. Mayfield's visits. I cannot seem to turn him away. Do you think it possible there is another being in me, another self who acts so impulsively without my approval?

Yesterday I left the children with Mr. Peerson's housekeeper and rode out towards the mountains with Thomas, on the pretext of finding a miner who is reported to live there and asking if he has heard of Clayton's whereabouts. The wind bit into our faces, and I felt the large muscles of the horse straining under me as we rode across the desert. Clayton would have insisted we take the wagon, but on horseback I felt I had been let loose somehow in all that wind from every earthly concern. I thought of the girl I was who rode sometimes all morning across the fields through all that swirl of green and blue, and how I wanted to become a musician or an artist or travel to Europe to study. Was it the war that turned us around so, filled us with practical concerns?

Maggie, Dr. Mayfield came west not to earn out a living but because he had to see it for himself: the plains, the mountains, the desert, buffaloes and Indians, the fields of flowers, the red and purple cliffs. He is filling note pads with writing and sketches. I have seen them, the charcoal drawings and those he colored with pastels. How drab and ordinary Clayton's and my plans for earning a living out of the desert seem next to his. How like the young girl in me still (and oh, I thought she was gone after Father and David's deaths and half the boys we knew in Gaten County) to not refuse a ride to the mountains or the loan of a book of prints.

We did not find the miner's house, but returned all the same before dusk, having built a small fire on which to heat our lunch and lain in each other's arms. Thomas has told me that if Clayton does not return by next month, he will ride north and try to find him or get word of what has happened. Mrs. Deering tells of a woman left alone in the desert one year waiting for word which never came from her husband. Finally, she gave up her claim and took her children farther west to live with her sister in California.

I can imagine her there, how she stayed on week after week despite fear of attack by some bushwhacker or outlaw, afraid to leave, to break off all chance that she would hear of her husband. I wonder how she managed the cold and food for her children and keeping the stock alive. I wonder how she managed.

I am yours,

Abigail

January 2, 1873

Dear Maggie,

The Christmas holiday passed with no news of Clayton's whereabouts. It is almost four months now since he rode away to work in the mines. He had planned to be gone one month at most before sending for us, but I have heard nothing. The aggravation of not knowing is nearly too much to bear. If he has been trapped in some mine shaft deep inside the earth or shot at night along some roadside, I wonder if I will hear of it. There are stories of bones found in the desert, picked clean, with no way of knowing what outlaw or poor lone traveler they belonged to.

Mr. and Mrs. Deering called on me and the children Christmas afternoon, insisting we ride back to their homestead for dinner. Mr. Peerson and Dr. Mayfield were there also, along with Mr. Peerson's brother and his wife and son. I had received your letter the previous week, and acting on your good advice I had told Dr. Mayfield I could not see him again until I know for certain what has become of Clayton. An argument had ensued, in which he called me “cruel” and “unnatural,” but I held to my resolution.

You can imagine my position, then, forced to sit at Christmas dinner with him among the other company, but the meal passed pleasantly; he is a gentleman. After a dinner of venison and squash, breads and pudding, there was a small exchange of gifts. I had brought little with me, a piece of embroidery for Mrs. Deering. The children all received candy sticks, and I accepted the drawing pad from Dr. Mayfield, as it would have been awkward to refuse it.

The day after Christmas the wind was so fierce I dared not go outside. By noon it was nearly dark, and sand rattled the glass, piling up against the windows. To calm my fears, I took out my new pad and made sketches of the children and the mountains. I even drew a scene from the mining camps and a picture of our wagon headed westward across the prairie.

The next day, after the wind had stopped and the sky turned blue and still again, I took the drawings I had made out into the light and saw what a mass of confusion some of them were, filled with thick dark lines. Dr. Mayfield came that afternoon to see if the wind had destroyed us, and when he caught sight of a drawing I had made of the mountain, asked if he could have it. I did not think to refuse him after all he has done for us.

The next day he came again, and the one after that. And so, Maggie, my resolve to do as you advised has weakened. Next week he has promised to ride across the mountains and look for Clayton.

Your Sister,

Abigail

February 7, 1873

Dear Maggie,

A month has passed since I last wrote, but it seems to me more than a year. Thomas had planned to ride over the mountains in search of news about Clayton, but we had a snowstorm the second week of January, and the mountains became impassable. I may have to wait for spring before I can learn of Clayton's fate.

Thomas has been our faithful guardian throughout the cold, carrying a wagon load of wood from Mr. Peerson's in the worst of the snow. Then one night last week, after there were rumors of an Indian uprising, he and Mr. Peerson brought us in the wagon to Mr. Peerson's ranch, where we spent three comfortable nights on feather mattresses under thick quilts and comforters.

More than once I asked them to let me do the cooking, cleaning, or mending as payment for their kindness, but they would not hear me and instead spent hours entertaining us with stories of their adventures. Thomas has traveled across the mountains of Colorado and seen one of the last herds of buffalo. Last spring he was led through a canyon filled with unusual rock formations by an Indian guide. Mr. Peerson told of the months he spent living with a tribe in Texas. There was a man bit by a rattlesnake who was cured of it by an Indian doctor, and Mr. Peerson witnessed several of the Indian dances. He was quite impressed with the chief, who he said was more intelligent than most white men. The world is so much larger than Stillwater, Maggie, and at times I cannot get enough of it.