The Passionate and the Proud (8 page)

“Thank you so much, Mr. Landar,” she replied crisply, taking her gear from him. “Just watch out for yourself. That ought to keep you busy enough. Now, good-bye.”

Garn mounted, tipped his hat, and cantered off easily on the elegant black, passing on his way a long, rangy woman with a thin face, a wispy gray bun of hair, and hooded, clever eyes. The woman rode up to Emmalee and looked down from her stolid mule.

“You’re the Alden girl, ain’tcha? I’m Myrtle Higgins. Come along. I got work for you. And, by the way, what the hell was
that
all about? Who was that young fellow you were jawin’ with? I ain’t seen him around.”

“His name is Garn Landar.”

“Hmmm. Handsome-looking man. What’d he want?”

“Well, I signed a contract with Mr. Torquist—”

“Yeah, so I heard.”

“And Mr. Landar wanted to give me money to buy myself out of it.”

Myrtle Higgins shrugged. “I saw all that cash he was offering you. Thought it might be another kind of deal entirely.”

“Never! I’m not that kind of a…person.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m going to make my way on my own. I’ve learned that it’s the only way to be certain that I control my own life. I wouldn’t let a man like…like Garn Landar maneuver me into a situation where I’d be beholden to him.”

“Sure, sure,” said Myrtle Higgins.

“Why, to have taken Garn Landar’s money would have been like
selling
myself,” Emmalee raged. “And he’s the type of man who just loves having everything he wants, having things his way.”

“Maybe he just fancies you,” Myrtle suggested.

“I’m
not
going to sell myself,” Emmalee declared again.

“But honey,” said Myrtle Higgins, gesturing toward Horace Torquist’s tent in the distance, in front of which Garn Landar’s black horse was tethered, “but honey, ain’t that exactly what you’ve already gone and done?”

Emmalee had no answer.

“Sure is a prime piece of stallion,” Myrtle said.

“What? Oh, yes, an excellent horse.”

“I’m talkin’ about Garn Landar,” Myrtle said.

The Torquist train rolled out of St. Joe, Missouri, on May 8, 1868, wagon after wagon after wagon, and struck off upon the grassy heart of the windswept Kansas plains. All morning long citizens of the town waved, calling Godspeed and farewell as the slow column passed, exuberantly but solemnly too, down Market Street and westward: 178 Conestoga wagons, 311 horses, 256 oxen, 88 head of dairy cattle, 29 dogs, 424 people. The Torquist company was not particularly large. Burt Pennngton’s train, which had departed two days earlier, was almost twice as big, and raised a mighty cloud of dust that could be seen, swirling like a pillar of smoke, against the western sky. That cloud of dust was Torquist’s constant goad and bane; in order to overtake it, he drove his people hard, and drove himself harder.

Everyone had known that the trek would not be easy, yet all were stunned at the random suddenness with which life and nature attacked their high dreams of destiny. The tall, sweet grass bent flat and died beneath wheel and hoof. Dust of dry earth, fine as powder, rose into the air and settled down upon the travelers, coating eyelids, lining nostrils of men and animals alike, forming a constant rind of grit around their panting mouths. The water wagon, driven by diligent but excitable Lambert Strep of Tennessee, was mobbed all the time, until Torquist, fearing a depletion of the precious supply, decreed strict rationing and made it stick by the force of his will. Thirst never ceased, nor did dust, and after a day on the trail, horses and oxen and men were coated with whitish-gray powder. The once-white canvases of the Conestogas, rippling, billowing in the wind, were coated too, and from a distance, in spite of the sunlight, it appeared as if a procession of ghosts and ghostly wagons had set out upon a journey into disintegration and shadowy nothingness.

The first horse collapsed thirty-seven miles outside St. Joe. Horace Torquist shot the floundering beast between the eyes, cursing ill luck. He and a half-dozen other men dragged the dead animal to the side of the trail and set to work cutting hide from the carcass, cutting horseflesh into thin strips for drying. The trail to Olympia, across Kansas, Colorado, and the Rockies, was long, hard, and unpredictable, and edible meat of whatever kind could not be discarded. Horseflesh, salted and dried, tasted like beef jerky, except that it was slightly sweeter if the horse—unlike this hapless beast—was not too old.

The first person died on the eleventh day out of Missouri, a six-month-old girl fallen victim to dehydration and the heat of the ceaselessly burning wind. She was buried in haste, with scant ceremony, beneath thick Kansas sod. The wails of the child’s heartbroken parents could be heard all along the line of the train. In time the cries diminished, becoming part of and indistinguishable from the sobbing of the wind itself, and the wagon train moved out once more, past a makeshift cross of wooden sticks.

Emmalee, trudging along beside the wagon to which she had been assigned, forced herself to stare straight and hard at the tiny cross, remembering similar crosses on the banks of the Monongahela and outside Springfield, Illinois, recalling all the other crosses in the grove above the Mississippi. Death preyed first upon the fearful. It would not get her.

“I’m going to live a long time,” she told herself. “A very, very long time. I’m going to make it out west and get land and—”

“Talking to yourself already, Emmalee? It’s a bad sign.”

Emmalee looked up to find Randy Clay riding along beside her. She had been walking next to a team of horses pulling one of the Conestogas—adults, unless ill, walked in order to spare the beasts additional burden—but he was on his dapple-gray. Randy had been assigned as a scout and outrider, sometimes reconnoitering ahead of the train, sometimes riding up and down the line of march to check up on the progress of the company.

“Here. Swing up behind me for a minute,” Randy offered. “Give your limbs a rest.”

Emmalee suppressed a smile. Randy was so correct. She remembered how appalled Mrs. Jannings had been when she’d complained of a sore hip once. Polite people did not say arm or leg or—God forbid—hip. They said “limb.” Emmalee decided that Randy was really quite sweet. He was probably even blushing under his sunburn.

“Hoist me up,” she told him. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a load off my legs at all.”

Randy reached for her and his powerful arms plucked her from the ground as if she were a feather. She twisted her body in midair, straddling the gray horse, and swung into a position behind Randy. She put her arms around his waist lightly, adjusting herself to the slow, swaying motion of the horse, which smelled of sweat and saddle leather. Randy smelled dusty but vital, a slight band of perspiration streaking the faded blue shirt that strained against his big shoulders. The horse felt warm between Emmalee’s thighs.

“Things look a lot different from up here,” said Emmalee. While walking, she hadn’t been able to see much more than the few wagons ahead of her own and the few wagons behind. But now, seated behind Randy atop the big horse, she saw the immense length of the column and sensed the human dimensions of hope and risk and wonder. These high-wheeled, creaking Conestogas were ships that sailed a sea of grass, wagons that held within their wooden boxes the worldly goods of all who ventured forth upon the sea, crude but sturdy vehicles that cradled and sustained a firmament of dreams. This was a voyage, and a hard one; Emmalee felt deeply proud to be part of it.

“How are you making it, Emmalee?” asked Randy, over his shoulder.

“Oh, pretty well. The boots I bought in St. Joe are holding up all right. So far.”

“‘So far’ is about as good as the news gets on a trip like this. Or so I’m told.”

Emmalee laughed. “That’s good. Who told you that?”

“The new scout. The one Mr. Torquist hired just before we left Missouri.”

Emmalee stiffened slightly. “What new scout?” she asked. In the frenzied bustle of getting the wagon train ready to roll, of carrying out the hundred and one tasks Myrtle had levied, Emmalee hadn’t had the time to reflect very much upon scouts of any kind. She’d simply assumed that the shrewd and suspicious Horace Torquist would immediately perceive Garn for what he was—an irresponsible adventurer!—and throw him out of the encampment forthwith. Also, Garn was violent, while Torquist claimed to be a man of God. Guns and ideals did not mix too well.

Emmalee had confessed to herself, however—confessed only briefly, and then absolved herself quickly—that Garn’s kiss back in St. Joe had actually been quite pleasant. And she’d found herself flattered in response to his remark that she was “different.” Well, I am, aren’t I? she thought. Making my way west, all by myself!

But she’d also figured—or rationalized—that the touch of his lips had been nice only because she hadn’t kissed anyone since Val Jannings last January. It had nothing to do with that arrogant Garn Landar.

Emmalee wondered if Randy Clay thought she was “different” in a compelling or attractive sort of way.

“What new scout is that?” she heard herself asking Randy.

“You don’t know? Why, he’s the talk of the train! Apparently he showed up just a couple of days before we pulled out of St. Joe and convinced Mr. Torquist that there were all kinds of disasters lying in wait for us on the trail. He also promised Torquist that he’d see to it that we get to Denver and Olympia before Burt Pennington does.”

Randy hadn’t mentioned the name of this scout, but Emmalee already knew that it was Garn Landar. She recognized without effort the form and substance of his insouciant braggadocio. And she was amazed that Torquist had fallen for it.

“He’s quite a guy,” Randy was saying. “It’s rumored that he’s crossed the Great Plains fifteen times. Eight times across the Rockies. Supposed to be marked cards and weighted dice in his saddlebags. And it’s said that he had to get out of Missouri on the quick because he killed and gutted some black man on board a riverboat in Hannibal.”

Oh, God
! thought Emmalee. She shuddered.

“Hey! What’s the matter?” Randy asked.

“Just slipped a little. I’m fine.”

“Well, Mr. Torquist made it plain to him, just like he does to everybody. The new scout’s got to toe the line, or he’s out. I admire Mr. Torquist for his ideals, don’t you? He’s the glue holding us all together. Once we reach Olympia, the ranchers will begin fighting among themselves as they always do, but Mr. Torquist, with his personal strength and his command of virtue, will see us through to stability and success. We farmers are different.”

Randy sounded absolutely convinced. Nor could Emmalee doubt the inner conviction she’d perceived in the wagon-master. The only thing that surprised her was that the rigid Torquist had actually hired Garn Landar!

“You said this…this new scout…?”

“Landar,” offered Randy helpfully.

“He’s promised to get us to Denver ahead of Pennington? I thought the important thing was to reach
Olympia
first?”

“That too. But we have to re-outfit in Denver. Who knows how many wagons and animals we’ll lose by the time we get there? Supplies are limited. The train that reaches Denver first will best be able to climb the Rockies.”

There was a long silence, during which Emmalee sensed that Randy had not come here to tell her about hardships along the trail. The wagon train rolled along, dust rose and fell. Emmalee, with her hands linked around Randy’s waist, felt his breathing quicken slightly.

“Em,” he said, “there’s a big meeting around the campfire tonight. Mr. Torquist wants everyone to be there.”

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”

He turned to look at her. “Would you…would you sit with me? I’d like to spend a little time with you.”

There was a touch of sweet shyness to his request. Emmalee was charmed.

“Maybe we can…talk a bit after Mr. Torquist is through,” Randy said.

Emmalee was more than pleased. She remembered her first glimpse of Randy, the tender concern she’d seen in his eyes on the day he’d accidentally run her down. And everyone spoke highly of him. She wouldn’t mind spending time with him at all.

“Sounds
grand
to me,” she responded enthusiastically. “I’m getting
so
tired of plodding along beside these…these
damn
horses…”

“You ought to try driving oxen if you think this is bad. What else has Myrtle got you assigned to?”

“At night I’m supposed to be a seamstress. Did you ever try to sew anything in campfire light?”

“No, ma’am. I never tried to sew anything at all.”

“Well, Myrtle said she might have another job for me real soon. I hope so. It can’t be any worse.”

Randy didn’t say anything for a little while. Then he half-turned, looked her in the eyes, and asked, “Is it true that you signed some sort of two-year deal with Mr. Torquist?”

“That’s right. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just curious,” Randy replied, with a rather woebegone expression. “Well, I guess I got to be riding on. Have to tell everybody about the meeting tonight.”

He helped Emmalee down from the horse, and she returned to the trudging grind beside the Conestoga. How far had she walked already? A hundred and fifty miles, for sure. That meant a little less or a little more than a thousand to go, not counting the additional effort required in crossing the mountains. Some people, she knew, sneaked aboard the Conestogas and slept as the wagons rolled. Myrtle Higgins usually routed them out, to their considerable humiliation. Well, human beings could stand quite a lot of humiliation, particularly if they got a little shut-eye in the trade-off.

Myrtle Higgins, on her mule, came riding down the line from the head of the train. Emmalee’s wagon was approximately in the middle of the march; Horace Torquist’s led the way; driven cattle and laggard Conestogas brought up the rear.

“Horace wants to see you, girl,” Myrtle announced through the scarf she wore over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust. “Jump up on Ned here and I’ll take you up to see him.”

Myrtle was one of the very few people on the train who called Torquist Horace even to his face.

“What does he want?” Emmalee asked, pulling herself up on the ornery animal, who kicked out at her and even tried to turn and give her a nip as she mounted, a protest against the added burden it would have to carry. Myrtle slapped it in the jawbone for discipline and jerked the bit back into the beast’s mouth, sawing hard on the reins. Ned had no choice but to defer to her wishes, and began to plod lugubriously on toward the head of the train.

“Did Mr. Torquist say what he wanted?” Emmalee asked again, somewhat more anxiously. In spite of all the respect he commanded, Emmalee felt uncomfortable with the wagonmaster.

“He didn’t say. But I expect it’s that new job I was telling you about. I don’t want to gab about what I think, but I reckon, if you play your cards right, there might be a little money in it for you.”

“Oh, really?” Emmalee’s apprehension lessened, and her enthusiasm increased.

“Don’t count no chickens. Wait and see. Bye-the-bye, I met Randy Clay as I was riding down to fetch you, and he looked just about as happy as a clam. Couldn’t be that he’s meetin’ you at the campfire tonight, could it?”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Myrtle snorted derisively. “You know,” she said, “I ain’t much to look at anymore, but I wasn’t all that bad, so quite a bunch of men were wise enough to tell me, and I was even your age once. But don’t you think you have a chip on your shoulder?”

“Myrtle, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t. Then you’re in worse shape than I figured. You think you’re all alone in the world, or what? There’s men on the train complainin’ that you won’t even give ’em the time of day.”

“That’s not true. I try to be polite to everyone. And as for being alone, well, I guess I am. I’ve had a pretty hard time…”

“Sure. About your pa and ma dyin’ and all. Well, I’m sorry. But you know young Randy Clay has eyes for you. I figure he’s gonna do more than all right for himself when we get to Olympia, claim land, and get settled.”

“I know that, but—”