Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 (11 page)

 

 

 

W
e stayed another full day at the bottom of that terrible hill. The Mustang was fidgety, shaking his mane, high spirited in the dawn chill when I led him out to graze. In the hot afternoon, he dozed with the mares and the other horses in the shade of the cottonwoods.

It seemed like Grover was avoiding me as much as I was avoiding him from that day forward. I was still afraid of him, but I understood him better, too—all the bruises made sense, and his anger. I remembered very clearly how I'd felt every time Mrs. Stevens had given me a willow switching—I was sad, but I was furious, too. More than that—I had hated her for it. I couldn't
imagine
feeling that way about my own father.

I knew that Mr. Kyler and the other men wouldn't approve of Mr. Heldon beating his son, but, if they had noticed, they hadn't done anything to interfere. They wouldn't. No one would ever question a father's punishment of his own children.

On the day we resumed our journey, I caught a quick glimpse of Grover as he took his place behind his parents' wagon, then my view was blocked by the Taylors as they brought their wagon around to get into line.

For a time, the trail seemed like it was just plain strewn with wonders. Two days later, traveling through dry country dotted with sagebrush and only sparse grass, we spotted two rock formations that Mr. Taylor told us were named Courthouse Rock and Jailhouse Rock. Two days after that, we were close enough to see why. They really did look like grand buildings jutting into the sky, especially in the hot, shimmery afternoon. The Mustang stood close beside me as I stared.

Two days later we spotted an even stranger rock. Mr. Kyler called it Chimney Rock, and that's exactly what it looked like—if the house was a hundred stories tall. It was so odd. Out of that flat, dry plain there rose a hulking, rounded mound of rock; then, on top of that, a sloping cone shape; then, on top of that, connected to and hewn from the same stone, there was a thin spire that stretched high enough to pierce a cloud's belly.

Everyone stopped and stared. If it hadn't been so hot, I think some would have walked a mile or two closer for a better look at it.

After that, we passed most of a week without being astonished at anything, our days timed to the soft thudding of ox hooves. The Mustang drank water from our barrels; he had to, there was nothing else to drink.

Andrew Kyler fussed constantly over his stock. He had seven water barrels, which burdened his oxen with extra weight. The water was rationed out, the horses allowed only short drinks to make it last. Some of his horses looked pretty bad, their ribs jutting out, their hipbones knobby beneath their skin. Delia and Midnight looked better than most of the others—I tried to include them in the Mustang's dawn-dusk grazing at least sometimes.

One morning we came over a little rise and saw rock bluffs jutting up out of the ground, high and ragged. It took some time, but we found a rutted track that led around them, and the wagons creaked and groaned over the rough ground. The rock was sharp, and a lot of us put on shoes for the first time in weeks.

The Mustang and I got pretty far out in front as the oxen picked their way over the stony ground. He bent his head like an oversized puppy, sniffing at my shod feet while we waited for the oxen to plod their way up to us.

By the time we spotted Fort Laramie, the menfolk had been talking about it for days. They made it sound like heaven on earth. It didn't look like it to me. Still, the log stockade stood straight and the square towers on either end gave it a look of solid safety, at least from the far side of the Laramie River. I could see men moving around outside the big fences, and there was a circle of wagons farther up the little valley.

The stock drank their fill, and we waited an hour or two so none would colic trying to swim with full bellies. Then we finally started across. Oxen bawled and balked at the water and refused to go forward.

Andrew Kyler rode a horse across, and we found out why. The river was only four or five feet deep, but it was so swift that water washed the horse sideways as it swam. With Andrew clinging to the saddle, it scrambled up the far bank a long ways downstream. I watched, along with everyone else, with a heavy heart. The Laramie River would not be an easy crossing.

The men set to work, walking up and down the banks, looking for a shallower place to cross. No one wanted to lose wagons in the current, of course, but no one wanted to run out of daylight before all were safely across either. Or most, I should say. Not all.

Mr. Silas wanted to go alone, and first, and he did just that. Before anyone could say a word about it, he ran back to his wagon and turned his team toward the crossing. “It ain't that wide or that deep,” he shouted, then cracked his wagon whip.

“Hold up!” Mr. Kyler yelled at him. “Let us get a rope across and anchored first!”

But Mr. Silas either didn't hear or didn't care. His companions knew better than to argue with him, I guess, because we didn't hear a one of them speak up as the wagon rolled down the bank and into the river. One shared the driver's seat—I saw him grab at the bench. The ones in back clung to the wagon rails.

I reached up to touch the Mustang's cheek with the flat of my hand, afraid to watch but unable to look away. Mr. Silas's wagon team began to swim halfway across, and the wagon rose like a clumsy boat, angling downstream, dragging the team with it. Mr. Silas cracked the whip and shouted like a man gone mad, and, a few terrifying moments later, the team found its footing and the wagon swung around. It tilted dangerously, then righted itself as they staggered out and pulled it up the steep bank.

No one cheered. No one said a word. Mr. Silas had done something foolish and had gotten away with it. He whooped and stood on the footrest and stuck one fist into the air. Then he whipped up his team and started up the bank toward the fort. We all watched wistfully.

“Let's get to work,” Mr. Kyler called. That seemed to break the spell, and we all started the long round of chores we had become used to. The women packed everything tight, tied everything down, caulked the wagon beds; while the oldest Taylor boy fastened a rope to a tree on our side, swam the rope across the river and tied it to a stout tree on the other side. If anyone was washed downstream, they would have a chance of grabbing the rope.

The crossing seemed to go even slower than usual as we waited our turns. I knew without anyone telling me that it was too deep and too swift to wade, and I walked the Mustang down to Andrew's herd.

The Mustang whinnied, and the mares answered him. I turned him loose, and he took his place beside Delia and Midnight. I walked slowly back to the Kylers wagon, scuffing my feet. I hated leaving the Mustang.

The crossing was worse than usual. I clenched Mrs. Kyler's hand and I could see her lips moving when the wagon started to slew sideward, the wheels no longer touching the bottom. I knew she was praying. An eternity later, we felt the wagon jolt as the oxen touched bottom and began to pull.

Finally, the wheels turned against the rocky river bottom, and the wagon wrenched and swayed toward the far bank. I could feel Mrs. Kyler trembling a little as the oxen pulled us out of the river, but she smiled at me. “There's one more behind us. Thank you,” she said, looking upward toward the sky.

Andrew and Ralph Kyler brought the stock across, and the Mustang helped them herd the mares up the bank. There were no animals lost, and everyone felt fortunate as we set up our camp a quarter mile or so from a circle of wagons that was already there. Mr. Silas camped with us like nothing had happened. Miss Liddy and her wagons set up a small distance away.

There was only a little daylight left, and we set about spreading out the blankets and clothes that had gotten wet. At dusk, we heard the fort gates creaking closed and men calling to one another from inside. By bedtime, the camp was about as comfortable as we could make it. I stood with the Mustang for a long time, then left him with the mares to sleep.

The next morning, Mrs. Kyler woke me early. “Let's go see what they sell here. Benton gave me a little money. Folks say it's expensive, but I want to look around.”

I sat up on my pallet and spotted the Mustang. “Five minutes,” I told Mrs. Kyler. She nodded. I pulled on my clothes and ran to tell the Mustang I was going to the fort for a little while. He nuzzled my neck, and I could feel the warmth of his breath. I hugged him, hard, then stood back. “If they have apples, I'll bring you one if I can.”

He shook his mane and dropped his head to graze.

“Do you want something to eat first?” Mrs. Kyler said when I walked back.

I was hungry. I was always hungry. But the idea of our usual rancid bacon, cooked or raw, made my stomach tighten that morning.

Mrs. Kyler laughed quietly. “I know. When you know there might be something better, what we have here doesn't make your mouth water much, does it?”

I smiled at her. We set out across the clearing in the dusky light. A few others were up, but barely. I could hear sleepy voices inside the wagons, but no one was stirring yet.

I looked over at Liddy McKenna's camp. No one was up there, either.

“If there is one bargain in the place, we'll find it,” Mrs. Kyler whispered. I nodded and smiled, feeling silly and free, like we were off on a lark.

The fort's doors had been opened, and the young man standing beside them nodded as we went past. Then he yawned and stretched.

Inside the fence, the fort looked like a small town crammed into close quarters. There was a blacksmith's forge, the fire already glowing. There was a cooper's, with barrel staves stacked in bundles, waiting to be put together. There was a dry goods store—well, it was sort of like a store. It was more like a tent awning with goods on blankets beneath it.

And there was the fort trader's shop. We went inside, staring at the stacks of clothing, the grocery goods on shelves along the walls. I glanced around. The shelves held bags of salt and coffee. There were parcels of corn and peas and beans, too. Along one wall there were a few trunks, some bedsteads, and sundry other household goods set along the side.

It was obvious where most of the trader's stock had come from. People going west all too often packed more than they needed and regretted the extra weight. We had seen chairs and beds left to rot on the plains. As thin as some people's oxen were wearing already, I knew we would see more as we went.

“What do you pay, sir?” Mrs. Kyler asked the clerk, obviously thinking along the same lines. “I have a washtub that's too small for my needs and some window curtains that are just in my way.”

“I pay well enough for anything I don't have,” the man said, stepping out from behind a wooden counter. “Trouble is, I have just about everything.”

Mrs. Kyler looked at him. “Is that so?” She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Go look around a little. See what he has for sale.”

I nodded and glanced back out the open door toward the tall stockade gates. More people were trickling in. It wouldn't be long before our whole party was inside the fort—and probably everyone from the other camp, too.

The doorway darkened, and a man came in. He caught the clerk's eye. “Where are the letters?”

I watched the clerk point. “There's a half barrel on the back wall.”

I caught my breath.
Letters?
I hadn't even
thought
about the fort being a post office, but it made sense. My heart was racing. If my uncle Jack had answered me...the letter could be here. I glanced at Mrs. Kyler. She was watching me. She smiled and nodded.

“Which one is the letter barrel?” the man asked from behind me. The shop owner gestured with his chin. “Right over there.”

I saw it. Someone had cut a pickle barrel in half and set it up on a crate. The man was closer, and I had to keep myself from running across the hard dirt floor.

I watched, barely breathing, as he went through the soiled letters. When he had handled each one twice, he made a sound of disgust and turned to leave. I guess he could see my hopes on my face, because he nodded at me as he passed. “I wish you better luck than mine,” he said kindly.

I stared at the barrel and swallowed hard as I walked toward it. It was hard for me to reach inside, but I took out every single letter, then went through them slowly, reading each person's name, the name of each town and territory or state.

A few of the letters had street numbers—people in big cities numbered their houses, I knew. Most of the packets just had names and towns and sometimes directions. “Mr. Earl Franklin's place, three miles north of Mad Creek Village, Kansas Territory,” one said.

My heart was fluttering like a bird against my ribs. I stared at each letter, read every word of the address, then dropped it back into the barrel. Then I would hold my breath and allow my gaze to fall on the next one.

I was halfway through the stack when I felt my heart's fluttering stop an instant, then begin again. I stared at the letter in my hand. It wasn't for me. It was
from
me. Jack Rose, it said, in my own handwriting.
Jack Rose and family, Oregon City, Oregon Country.
The paper I had folded over the letter was still tied securely with the cotton twine I had used more than a year before. There were stains all over the paper, but the writing was still very clear. So was the message someone had scrawled across the top of the packet.

I felt sick, then I gulped in a long breath, laid the letter to one side, and forced myself to finish going through the stack. When I had, I turned around. “This one is mine,” I told the man in the apron. He nodded without looking up from his work. I shoved the letter inside my bodice.