Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,38
has been carved down to forty wagons and fifty fewer people by death and desertion. The Hastingses, with their big wagon and their funny horse-drawn carriage, have not abandoned the trail, despite Mr. Abbott’s prediction. They’ve complained bitterly, along with a few other families (including the Caldwells, who have fared better than most), but they have not turned back. Mr. Caldwell got wind that John is continuing on with the train. He’s been whispering in Pa’s ear and stirring up trouble, and he’s already pulled me aside to warn me about being “dragged off by the half breed.” I told him John doesn’t want to drag me off, but if he did, I’d go willingly. It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, I suppose, but I am too weary to abide him or his opinions.
We cross about ten miles west of Fort Kearny, where the river is narrowest and the sandbars sit like miniature islands in the coffee-colored sludge. I overhear John telling Webb that the Platte is worse than the Missouri because it must be forded and not swum, and each step threatens to suck you under.
John doesn’t waste any time and puts Webb and Will on Trick and Tumble, attaching their leads to Dame and his string of mules. He leads them the way he did on the Missouri, showing them what he expects before he returns to the banks to coax them into the water.
“Keep going, boys. Hang tight, and don’t panic,” he says, and Webb and Will obey, murmuring softly, “Go, mules, go,” as Trick and Tumble rush through the waters, the silty bottom sucking at their hooves.
“Attaboy, Trick,” Webb encourages, like it’s all just a grand adventure. Will is a little more cautious, but Tumble trots through the water behind John and Dame, and they make it across without mishap, then wait for us on the far side.
We raise the beds of the wagons as high as they will go and tie down all the supplies as best we can. Little Wolfe is swaddled and secured in his basket, tied down amid the sundry supplies. It is the safest place for him, but Ma sits beside him, clinging to his basket with stark fear stamped all over her face. Pa drives one team, walking alongside the oxen with his Moses stick; Warren is still too weak to walk through a mile of turbulent water beside the oxen, so Wyatt drives the other. I climb up on the front seat, and Warren lies in back, promising to keep the supplies from tumbling out. Pa hems and haws, and Ma’s lips have gone white with terror. She prays loudly for the waters to be calm and the wagons to have wings.
With a crack of the whip and a “Giddyap,” we lurch forward into the Platte, the water lapping at the sides of the wagons, the oxen groaning, and the far shore so distant it’s like a mirage. Suddenly John is back, splashing toward us, shouting directions and then circling around, bringing up the rear. We are more than halfway across, gaining confidence with every rod, when Pa’s wagon begins to list to the side and Ma begins to holler. The supplies bump and slide as wheels sink deep. The water sloshes into the wagon bed, and Ma’s prayers become a scolding.
“Keep those oxen moving, William,” John yells to Pa, threading his rope through the front wheel and wrapping it around his saddle horn. He spurs Dame, and the wagon jolts forward with a sudden sucking sound. The oxen bellow, stumbling as the weight of the wagon surges against the yoke.
Just as quickly as Pa is freed, Wyatt begins to panic, pulling back on the team instead of pushing the pace. I don’t think twice but swing down from the box into the river to help Wyatt. The water isn’t deep, but it pulls at my skirts, and I wade ahead, determined to keep the wagon from getting stuck. I trip and go under, but only briefly, before I get my hands around the tug on the harness of the lead ox and pull as hard as I can. Everyone’s yelling as I’m yanking, but the wagon rights itself, and the team surges forward, crisis averted.
John leans down and, with a grunt and a hiss, hauls me up into the saddle in front of him, my skirts streaming and threatening to pull me right back down into the water.
“Please don’t do that again, Mrs. Caldwell,” he barks, his