Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 (2 page)

 

 

 

T
he road was steep and narrow going over the bluff, but once we topped it, the horizons were so wide, so glorious, that I heard a spontaneous cheer rise along the line of wagons.

“Oregon ho!” Mr. Teal shouted at the top of his lungs, and the cheer swelled. A few of the men tossed their hats high.

Mr. Kyler was straight as a ramrod on the driver's bench. Mrs. Kyler was twisted around, still looking back toward Annie and Hiram even though she couldn't see them anymore.

Andrew Kyler was herding his stock along on the other side of the wagons, almost even with Mr. Silas. I didn't want to get too close to the mares, or they would try to follow the Mustang. And I didn't want to be close if the men started arguing.

I walked fast, then broke into a running stride for a little ways, passing wagons, each with its hitch of oxen plodding in pairs under their heavy wooden yokes. The wagon train was much longer now that the wagons were spread out.

The Kyler girls were walking between the tailgate of Ralph and Ellen Kyler's wagon and the team of oxen that pulled their grandparents' wagon—still off to one side like Mr. Teal had told them. For once, they were subdued and quiet.

I kept walking fast until I was ahead of them, then I slowed and glanced back. They were whispering to one another now, their heads close together.

A little girl with ashy blonde hair pulled one of Julia's braids. “Hope!” Julia said sharply, jerking her hair free.

Well. Great day in the morning. After all this time, I knew which one was Hope. Did any of them know my name? If they did, they never used it.

The Mustang broke into a prancing trot, blowing out whooshing breaths, his neck arched. I ran a little to keep up with him, then gradually pulled on the lead, bringing him back to a walk. His ears were pricked straight forward, and his tail streamed out behind him.

“It's all the open sky, isn't it?” I asked him. He nosed at my shoulder, then lifted his head and pranced another few strides before he settled.

I glanced back at the girls and saw Polly staring at me. I looked aside quickly, then realized she was probably looking at the Mustang. He looked beautiful in the early sunlight, his mane and tail fanned out in the breeze.

I looked away. I didn't want the girls crowding around the Mustang anytime, but especially not when he was already in high spirits and a little nervous. The last thing I needed was for some giggling girl to spook him and get herself kicked. I shivered, thinking about it, and led the Mustang a little farther away from the long line of wagons. I had to be careful.

“You're calmer than you were,” I told him. “But Hiram was right. No one will ever mistake you for a farm horse.” It was true. When something startled him, his instinct was to fight.

I walked a little faster, and the Mustang kept up without my tugging on the rope at all. I slowed as I came up even with the last of the Kylers' wagons. The driver was one of their sons, I knew that much, and that his name was Charles. His wife was tiny, almost child-sized. They both looked young. I wondered which of the girls belonged to them. They both waved at me, and I waved back.

Then I walked a little faster, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, until I was more or less abreast with the next wagon—a couple I had never met. The man and his wife smiled at me. I nodded and smiled at them.

The Mustang arched his neck and stepped lightly. “Are you trying to impress their mules?” I teased him quietly. The man was driving a span of six mules, big reddish ones—a color I had never seen before. He and his wife were both heavyset, rosy-faced people. They smiled at me again, and I smiled back, then looked away, a little uneasy.

There were so many strangers. Most of the Kylers were strangers to me, really. The Mustang was walking close behind me, and he chose that moment to touch my shoulder with his muzzle, his breath warm on my neck in the chilly morning air. I patted him, grateful for his friendship.

I heard the sound of girlish laughter behind us and refused to turn and look. The Kyler girls. I heard them talking, then another burst of laughter, and I glanced back in spite of myself. “You can't do it that way!” Polly exclaimed. “You have to guess, then it's Mary May's turn.” I saw her lower her head, talking earnestly. It sounded like some kind of guessing game.

“I‘ll probably get to know the Kyler girls better now,” I whispered to the Mustang. “Whether I want to or not. I'll have to shelter in their grandparents' wagon when the weather gets bad.”

I longed for Hiram and our little wagon and turned to look back toward Council Bluff. It had disappeared. Even Kanesville was impossible to see from here. The land was so level on either side of the steep-sided valley that it was completely hidden, the edges of the bluffs blending with distance as though nothing lay between them at all.

I turned back and saw a little boy peeking out of the back of the covered wagon in front of me. “Oregon ho!” he shouted at me. He looked so merry that I couldn't help but smile at him. “Oregooooon ho!” he shouted a second time.

There was a little rill of laughter among the adults who were close enough to hear. He shouted a third time, and his father glanced around and saw me staring. He grinned. “Morning!” he called. “You've met our son, Toby. We're the McMahons.”

“How do you do?” I answered him politely. I found myself angling the Mustang closer so he wouldn't have to shout.

“Doing fine, this morning,” he said. “We were about to die of waiting back in Kanesville. We'd been there—”

“Nearly two weeks,” Mrs. McMahon said.

“The man we signed on with had to go back east,” Mr. McMahon said. “So we had to look for another guide but—”

“The best of them had more folks than they wanted for their parties,” his wife said.

I smiled. It was like talking to the same person, divided over two bodies. One started the sentences, and the other finished them.

“That's a handsome animal,” Mrs. McMahon said, pointing at the Mustang.

“We were wondering earlier—” Mr. McMahon began.

“Where'd you get an animal like that?” Mrs. McMahon asked.

“He's from the Oregon country somewhere,” I said, hoping they wouldn't ask me any more. The gathered iris of osnaburg canvas behind them parted, and Toby was suddenly climbing onto the driver's bench from the back. He scooted down, positioning himself between his parents like a hen settling into straw.

I smiled and waved at him, but then I dropped back a little. “Sometimes I wish you were plain as a mud hen,” I told the Mustang. “You always draw a question or two.”

He shook his mane, probably to chase off a fly, but I laughed. It looked as though he had meant to argue with me. “Oh, I know. If you were less handsome, Midnight and Delia wouldn't answer every time you neighed at them, would they?” I tapped his shoulder and he danced away from me, then sidled closer again. I laughed aloud.

Then I noticed that the Kyler girls were all looking at me. Polly waved and I waved back, but then I blushed and lowered my eyes. I faced straight ahead for a while, feeling silly. Why should I care if the Kyler girls thought I was odd, talking to a horse? But I did. I did.

The rutted road lay before us, disappearing in the distance. The sky was wide and light blue with only a few clouds visible to the north. The ground beneath my feet was smooth and soft—and chilly from the cold night.

The sun would soon warm it, I was sure. It felt good to be up out of the valley and on the high ground. I could see all the way to forever in all four directions.

I leaned close to the Mustang's ear and whispered so low that the Kyler girls wouldn't know I was talking to him again.

“Oregon!” I breathed. “We're on our way.”

CHAPTER THREE

 

 

 

I
t took almost two hours to get the wagons in a circle that first night. The drivers had botched it at our supper stop, and Mr. Teal was determined to get it done proper for the night. It sounds like a simple thing to do, but it isn't.

If one of the wagons is angled wrong, the next one can't be placed right; then instead of a circle, it winds up looking like a misshapen egg with gaps between the wagons wide enough for any horse or ox to waltz right through.

Mr. Teal made everyone start over three times, getting all the wagons back into a long line, then filing off in a curve. I walked the Mustang off to one side and let him graze while the men were popping their whips and shouting at the oxen.

They came around one last time. The oxen were bawling with hunger by the time we finally got it done. The sun had almost gone down before anyone had the harnesses off their working stock.

“Tomorrow we will be stopping earlier,” Mr. Teal shouted, standing on the McMahons' driver's bench. “You need practice, but it'll get easier.”

“Amen to that,” someone answered, and everyone laughed.

I kept the Mustang grazing until people had their campfires lit and their suppers started. Then, when things had quieted down, I led him back to the ring of wagons and guided him over Mr. and Mrs. Kyler's wagon tongue.

He lifted his front hooves high and hopped his back ones over the long oak pole that served as the anchor for all the harness straps. He was whinnying back and forth with Delia and Midnight the whole time we walked toward them.

“Good thing no one else has a stallion,” Andrew Kyler said, watching the Mustang nudge the two mares to the edge of the herd. The horses and oxen would have the inside of the circle grazed flat by morning, and I was glad the Mustang had already gotten his fill.

“Here, Katie,” Mrs. Kyler said, patting the ground beside her when I got back to her wagon. “Will you stir this while I get the biscuits?”

I knelt beside the fire and smelled salt pork and beans heating in the pot—leftovers from last night's supper.

I dragged the long-handled ladle through the big pot, making sure the beans weren't sticking to the cast iron and burning. Nothing tasted worse than burnt beans, and I didn't want to be the one responsible for ruining everyone's meal.

I heard Mrs. Kyler banging around in the jockey box that was mounted on the side of their wagon. Hiram and I had packed our kitchen goods inside our little farm wagon, but it was much harder to pack and unpack one of these high, covered freight wagons. Most of the women kept their kitchens in the wooden boxes.

“There it is!” Mrs. Kyler said, holding up a slotted spoon. “This lets the water run out when I serve up the plates. Two of my boys hate sloppy beans.”

I stirred, watching her work, admiring the everyday grace in her worn, stained hands. She tore thick handfuls of grass and laid it flat to get it out of her way and to make a clean place to set her tins and utensils. She spread a cloth and set a butter crock on it, then glanced up at me.

“Melted from the sun, and it'll be rancid in two days, but I traded for it in Kanesville—thought it'd be a nice surprise tonight.” She pushed back the cloth on the biscuit box and stood up, pressing her hands against the small of her back. “All leftovers. Supper's simple to fix tonight.” She stood looking upward at the darkening sky, stretching, then leaned over and slipped her pot stick through the arch of the bale, and lifted the heavy pot off the fire.

“Come and get supper!” she shouted, skimming the side of the pot with the ladle three or four times before she started dishing up the food.

In minutes, I was surrounded by Kylers. I took my plate and backed away, finding a spot beside one of the wagon wheels where I could lean back a little and eat in comfort. The beans tasted good. Anything tastes good when you are hungry enough, but Mrs. Kyler did make good beans—not too salty. She must have washed some of the salt out of the bacon before she cut it up.

“How are your feet?”

I looked up, startled to see Julia standing over me. “Fine.”

“They aren't sore?” she asked. “Mine are bruised all over.”

I shook my head. “I walked most the way from Scott County barefoot.”

“Julia!” one of the girls called. I looked past Julia and saw Polly and Hope. They were standing with two other girls I didn't know. They weren't Kylers. I had never seen them before.