Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie Read online

  Jake thought it was all right by him if we cooked up some maggots, but Pa dragged the sack outside of camp and buried it.

  At least three other families were sold rotten meat also.

  Three days later

  I have lost track of days and dates so from now on shall not worry about them. Aunt June has also lost track because she’s been sick with dizziness. Uncle Tim drives while she lies in the wagon, the canvas sides rolled up from the bottom to let air in. Ma herself is tired and grouchy. She says the dust gives her a headache something fierce.

  There’s no sign of the little twins’ family.

  A lady by the name of Mrs. Kenker brought over a cup of soup last night, but Aunt June was too vomitty to even taste it. Mrs. Kenker has gray hair wrapped on top her head and she has all her teeth. She smiled real pretty and asked “how y’be” to everyone; she reminds me of my sweet old grandma.

  She and her husband are well liked, it seems. At night when the fiddler starts up, they lead out with a waltz or polka, depending on how slow or fast the music. Soon the married couples join in, then the younger men with sweethearts.

  “How lovely they are together,” folks whisper about Mr. and Mrs. Kenker.

  But I know something folks don’t.

  This morning before sunrise, as we were taking down our tent, Mrs. Kenker came to check on Aunt June, so sweet and gentle-like. She lay her hand on my aunt’s forehead then kissed her cheek. Then just as smooth and quiet as you please, Mrs. Kenker reached into our cooking box and slipped one of Ma’s silver spoons into her apron pocket!

  I thought my eyes was playing tricks on me. My mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

  What will Mama do if I tell her?

  Evening

  When we reached the high grassland of Indian country we saw wide-open prairie filled with wildflowers, yellow, blue, and red, like patches on a quilt. Tall Joe says that some days ahead we’ll meet up with emigrants coming down from Iowa and Wisconsin Territory. There could be twice as many of us then, all heading west.

  Pa wonders if there will be enough grass for all our animals or enough firewood for our camps.

  I’ve decided to walk to Oregon on account of there is no comfortable way to ride. Our rocking chair broke when it fell out the back and Ma insists on keeping it even though Pa says it takes up more room broke. She is so cross with him, she will not listen to reason. And I don’t want to upset her even more by telling about her stolen spoon.

  All day our wagon drove alongside the Anderson family with baby Eliza May and her tree sisters (Mama says I must stop calling them that). How their mother cleans Eliza May’s and Cassia’s diapers is an amazing sight:

  After breakfast she pins them with thorns to the canvas sides of their wagon. As they flap in the breeze they dry and the sun bleaches them whiter than they were hours before. By noon, there are more tacked to each side, and just before we turn into a circle at sundown, the Anderson wagon looks like a creature with many tiny wings.

  Pepper and I and some other girls hunted for food near old campsites. She has such a pleasant way of giving orders that several younger girls tagged along, ­eager to look here or there, and dig in the dirt with their fingers.

  “Like this, Pepper?” they asked, and she would pat them on their shoulders and say, “Why, yes, that’s perfect. Good work.” After a couple of hours we had found small red potatoes, some pearl onions, and rosemary.

  Next day

  Our train has about 135 wagons, so at night we divide into groups, spread out over a couple miles. For the past week we’ve had the same 23 wagons in our circle. The littlest children can play safe inside while mothers gather around the fire to cook or visit. We are all becoming well acquainted.

  This is how we pull into a circle: The tongue of our wagon rests near the inside rear wheel of Uncle Tim’s and his does the same with the wagon in front of him and so forth. All the wagons together form a horseshoe with an opening about 20 feet wide so folks can come and go.

  After the animals are unhitched they are let out to pasture with the rest of the stock. Men take turns guarding so in case of an Indian attack they are ready to herd them into our corral and pull chains across for a gate. Thus far we ain’t seen any Indians and I’m glad for that.

  (Folks say they are dirty and vicious, but I don’t know.)

  Ma is more cheerful today, but Pa still avoids arguing with her. She’s been caring for Aunt June and this morning said the illness was on account of Aunt June going to have a baby! Before we get to Oregon!

  Two large kettles are on the fire tonight — one with beans and the other with vegetables and beef bones left over from last night’s meal. Some families spread a cloth in the dirt to make it look nice, but us — Ma and Aunt June — are already sick of washing dishes so sometimes we just take turns dipping cups in and sharing spoons, then it’s not so much to clean.

  Mrs. Kenker uses white linen with china plates and two crystal wine goblets, for she and the mister tip back a few each night. I am keeping an eye on her.

  Two days later

  Now that Aunt June’s feeling better she took her calendar around until she found someone who’d been making notches in the side of a wagon. We think it is May 8, Saturday, 1847.

  In the distance there’s a light green ribbon stretched through the middle of a wide valley. Pa said this is the Platte River and it will guide us into the mountains. The days are warming up so Pepper and I take our shoes off to walk — this is after we’re out of our mothers’ sight. The tops of our feet are brown from the sun, the bottoms are tough as leather.

  She is more talkative now and not at all shy about lifting her skirt to cool off when no one’s looking. I’m fond of her, for she knows how to laugh, and she also has a soft heart. Like me, she’s worried about the lost children and their poor mother, more so maybe because she and Wade themselves are twins. We still look behind us, hoping to see dust from their family’s wagon trying to catch up.

  Wade joined us today with one of his new friends, a tall boy with curly brown hair and a gentle manner. His name is Gideon. He’s seventeen years old, but so shy he took one look at Pepper’s beautiful green eyes and blushed. He stared down at his feet almost the whole three hours we walked together.

  Wade, now, he’s not shy. He told a joke when he figured I was the only one listening to him. It went like this:

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  (Aunt June saw over my shoulder while I was sitting after supper and said I must not repeat such naughty jokes, and that I best cross it out before Ma sees.)

  But I still think it was funny.

  May 10, Monday

  As we headed down a bluff toward the Platte River there was already many campfires, tents, and wagons. It felt the same as when our steamboat arrived in Independence —so many people!

  Most are from Wisconsin Territory — they have “northern” accents, a speech that is not near as slow as folks’ from Kentucky. Some brothers from Iowa have brung with them 800 young fruit trees to plant in Oregon. The seedlings are just a few inches tall.

  “Well,” said Pa, “seems these here are ournew traveling companions.”

  The trail is broad and sandy here on the south side of the Platte, and it feels like we’re pulling uphill. Pa says we’ll go over one hundred miles before we have to cross, and it’ll take maybe ten days.

  (I do dread having to cross another river.)

  Mosquitoes are fierce! There are itchy bites on my arms, neck, and cheeks, even on my head where my hair is parted. It is near impossible not to scratch vigorously.

  Every morning we fry up “skeeter cakes.” I’ve tried and tried
to stir quick and even if the batter is clean when I pour, somehow bugs see it as a place to land, and land they do, like specks of pepper. I can see no way around it.

  At night there are campfires way across the river, on the north side. Our men are talking low among themselves, wondering if Indians are following us. (If they are following us, what are we to do?) Come sunup, all we can see is dust and horses and what looks like wagons, but Pa says if they ain’t Indians what are they and why do they travel alone?

  Evening

  Tall Joe and three of his friends crossed over by way of sandbars and shallows to see who these strangers are.

  “They’re Mormons, from Illinois,” Tall Joe reported back to us. “Their leader is a big fella named Brigham Young. There is only three women and two chil­dren and the rest is men, about one hundred forty we counted, and three nigras, servants looks like.”

  Tall Joe said they’re heading west, maybe to the valley of the Great Salt Lake to start a colony. “Thousands more will come next year, don’t ask me why, it’s just a desert full of dead things.”

  Pa asked Tall Joe, “But why do they stay on the other side of the river? There ain’t no trail.”

  “I dunno,” the old trapper said between mouthfuls of beans. “Maybe they’s worried there won’t be enough grass, I dunno.”

  A wagon train is like a small town the way talk spreads. Soon everyone, it seems, had a story about the Mormons, mainly that Mormon men each have several wives and the reason they left Illinois is because they want to find a place to live where folks won’t keep telling them they’re committing adultery.

  Mrs. Lewis said, “Frankly I prefer they stay on the other side of the river on account of I don’t want any pole-igamist getting friendly with our daughters and sisters. Leave ol’ Brigham Young be. Let them go their way.”

  Myself, personally I think something’s wrong with a religion that says men get to have as many wives as they please all at once. Pepper says so, too.

  Before bed

  Forgot to say that today Bennie took off his shirt and threw it in the river. I don’t know why he did this except that he’s two years old and doesn’t know better. Now he has one shirt to last all the way to Oregon. I must watch carefully to make sure he don’t also throw away his shoes!

  Next day

  At noon Mama was looking through our kitchen box, taking things out then putting them back.

  “Hattie?” she said. “Have you seen Grandma’s china plate, the little one with roses? I thought I put it in after breakfast.”

  I helped Ma look. We tried to think together where we last set it. Suddenly I caught my breath, remembering:

  Pepper and I had carried our families’ dishes to the stream where we dipped them in cold water and rubbed them with sand. To dry, we lay them on the grassy bank and sat for a while talking. There were other women doing the same. One of them was Mrs. Kenker.

  I’m worried Mrs. Kenker has stole something else from us, but if I tell Ma, there might be arguments and Ma is already wore out and nervous as it is. I don’t want to bother her with something new to worry about.

  (How can someone who looks like my dear old grandmother be a thief?)

  After supper when the fiddlers were getting warmed up, I walked over to the Kenkers’ wagon, just to see what I could see. Mister and Missus were sitting on stools by their wheel, talking sweet to the Anderson family. The five little girls were on a blanket that was laid out in the dirt, playing with a tea set they made from acorn caps. Cassia was singing a song to her baby sister, Eliza May.

  “Hello, Hattie, dear,” Mrs. Kenker said. “We’re having cocoa in a moment, would you like to join us?”

  “No, ma’am, I would not.” I kept walking.

  “My, my,” she said.

  I know it wasn’t polite to answer her so sharp, but I don’t care.

  Later

  We are camped by the Platte. Smoke from the Mormon campfires drifts toward us with a good smell of beef roasting. I would like to meet the two Mormon children and see what they’re like, what kind of clothes they’re wearing, and so forth. How lonesome it must be for them not to have friends to play with on such a long journey.

  Mosquitoes are still a terrible nuisance. Every bit of my skin itches! Ma says the only way to keep them off is to smear mud on our bites, but I tried this three nights in a row. By sunup my face was so tight I ­couldn’t smile and when it was all washed off my skin was dry as a stone, which itched almost as bad as the bites.

  Pepper and I followed a tiny stream out of camp to a marshy area. Growing nearby was a small crop of wild carrots and parsnips. We pulled their bushy tops until we had enough to fill our aprons. I dislike vegetables, they make me feel vomitty, but Aunt June says to gather any food we see because we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Along the path we also found a tree with tiny green apples, but left them as they weren’t ripe.

  Another day

  Something horrible has happened and I fear I’m to blame.

  Just before supper last night little Cassia came to where Pepper and I was cutting up potatoes and onions for soup. While Cassia watched, I sliced all the parsnips and gave her a couple bites when she held out her palm.

  The kettle was hanging over a fire near the center of camp, so Pepper and I brung the vegetables along with three salted ox tongues, preserved from those that died the other day. We dumped the meat and onions into the boiling water, but saved the rest to add later.

  We returned to help Mrs. Lewis — Pepper’s mother — make pies. I rolled out dough on the wagon seat, enough for six pie crusts. This took near an hour. While I was pressing them into pans, we heard screams.

  Lying in the dirt by the kettle was three boys. They were shaking and twisting and foaming at the mouth and gasping for breath. When we saw that one of the boys was Wade, Pepper and her mother ran with their hands in the air crying out his name.

  Such was my hurry that when I jumped down from the seat my skirt swept the pie crusts off, down into the dirt.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Wade’s mother cried, pulling him into her arms. Pa noticed the basket of vegetables had been knocked over.

  He scooped up a handful and yelled, “No one eat anything! No one!” He leapt onto a crate so folks could see him, and kept hollering. “Who made this soup? What’s in it?”

  I was so frightened my insides were shivering, but I stepped forward. Pepper did, too.

  “Pa,” I said, trying not to cry, “it was our turn to cook tonight, we made it.”

  “Hattie, show me what you put in, quick.” To the gathering men he shouted, “Bury all this, bury it now.” Meanwhile some of the women were scooping charcoal from the fire and crushing it into powder. They tried to force it down the boys’ throats with water, but their jaws was clenched too tight.

  Pepper and I showed Pa where we cut the meat and vegetables. He picked up the potato peelings, smelled them, put a piece on his tongue and waited a moment. He did the same with an onion skin. He tasted a sliver of beef.

  “These here are all right,” he said. “What else, Hattie?”

  I showed him the parsnip tops we’d broke off and set aside for salad.

  Pa’s face fell. He looked up at Mr. Lewis then back at me. He sniffed the greens, then placed a tiny bit of the root on the tip of his tongue.

  In an instant he spit it out. “God help us,” he said. “This is water hemlock . . . poison. Hattie, wash your hands right quick.”

  Next day

  It’s midmorning and we are still camped.

  There is so much upset and noise that I am alone in our wagon for a few moments. No one can see me because I’m hidden among the flour sacks; wish I could disappear for good.

  When Pa said the word “hemlock,” panic broke out. Folks who hadn’t eaten yet suddenly thought they had. M
others cried for their children. Suddenly I remembered Cassia.

  We called her name. Gideon found her curled up inside his family’s wagon. When I saw him carrying her limp body in his arms, and when I realized she was dead, I broke down.

  “Only two bites,” I sobbed. “It was only two bites.”

  Three graves are being dug by the side of the trail. The two younger boys died thirty minutes after becoming sick. Wade hasn’t woke up yet. His eyes just stare, and his body stiffens and shakes so wildly they’ve had to tie him down so he won’t hurt himself. Pepper is too upset to speak.

  It crushed me to look at Wade. He is breathing hard and fast through clenched jaws so it sounds like he’s hissing. Blood is at the corners of his mouth. I have never seen such a violent sickness.

  What happened was the boys were so hungry they sampled the vegetables while waiting for supper.

  We don’t know how much hemlock Wade ate, but we’re praying it ain’t as much as the others. He was the only one whose jaws they were able to pry open long enough for him to swallow. Maybe charcoal in his stomach is absorbing the poison.

  There is much weeping.

  Pepper and I showed the men where we found the plants. We are showing them to everyone, walking from wagon to wagon, telling children to be careful, to stay away and not even touch them if they find any while out playing.

  Pa said at first there is a sweet taste when you take a bite, but then there is a bitter, burning taste. Carrots and parsnips, he showed us by drawing in the dirt, have one root, that’s what they are, a root. Hemlock has a few roots joined together, like a hand with plump fingers. The color is white, just like parsnips and wild carrots.

  Even the tops are deadly. Sheep and cattle die from grazing on them. Uncle Tim said that one small root can kill a horse, one bite can kill a man.