1893, and the modern zipper was in use by World War I. Zippers weren’t in general circulation until the 1930s.”
David was laughing. “Aren’t you glad you asked, Liz?”
“Point is,” Elizabeth’s father continued, “if the zippers get noticed, all we say is something like, ‘Yeah, this guy named Judson invented them. They’re really popular where we come from.’ And we leave it at that, which isn’t telling a lie at all.”
“What about my deck shoes?” David asked, as if daring his father.
“It’s like an Indian moccasin, but with a harder sole.”
“Lizzie and I are wearing pants and bras,” Elizabeth’s mother threw in.
“Women were more physically modest—at least openly—in these days than in the time we come from. So nobody’ll see your underwear. As for pants, after the accident with the wagon, with God only knew how long a walk over rugged terrain ahead of us, wearing pants like a man seemed like the only sensible choice for you guys. Try me on another one,” her father dared.
“Ohh, ohh!” Elizabeth’s mother exclaimed in an artificial sounding high voice. “How do men just ever stand wearing these terrible trousers?”
“That was a good one, Mom,” Elizabeth proclaimed.
“Thank you, Lizzie.”
“Okay, Dad,” David volunteered, shifting his burdens and removing his wristwatch. “These things didn’t come around until World War I, either.”
“Good point, David. Make sure to keep your sleeves down so the paler skin where the watchband covers isn’t visible.” As he spoke, Elizabeth’s father opened the bracelet of his Rolex and hid the watch in a pocket of his bomber jacket.
“I’m Tom, and this here’s my wife, Mary. We’re the Bledsoe’s.” The man was holding a rifle, but had a pleasant enough look about him.
“Pleased to meet y’all,” Mary Bledsoe seconded, a shy smile crossing her pale lips, her hands bunched on the edges of a long white cotton apron.
A girl about Elizabeth’s age approached hesitantly.
“Come on, girl. Come on up here and meet these folks.” Tom Bledsoe waved the girl forward.
“Hey,” Lizzie said, smiling.
No one could resist Lizzie’s beautiful smile, and Jack Naile had that confirmed when the Bledsoe girl sort of half curtsied and said softly, “A pleasure to meet y’all folks. I’m Helen.”
Jack Naile deduced that it was his turn. “I’m Jack Naile, and this is my wife, Ellen, our daughter, Elizabeth, and our son, David. We were on our way to California, crossing the mountains, when there was a terrible accident with our wagon.”
“You poor things!” Mary Bledsoe blurted out, wringing her hands around her apron and then smoothing it as she went on. “Helen!”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Go start puttin’ food on the table while I find Mrs. Naile and her daughter something decent to wear. Scoot, child!” As Helen ran off—she had a good stride, skirts raised in order to accomplish it—Mary Bledsoe started gathering Ellen and Elizabeth to her, like a mother bird folding her wings about the babies. “It’s terrible for you poor things.”
Despite the fact that Mary Bledsoe seemed positively outraged that females—even strangers—were forced by circumstance to wear trousers, it was easy to see who wore the pants in the Bledsoe household. Jack Naile looked over at Tom Bledsoe. “David and I didn’t know what we might bump into. Didn’t want to put you folks off by walking up here with these.” He gestured with the 1895 Marlin lever action that was in his right hand.
“Man’d be a fool for sure not goin’ armed in these parts, critters with four legs and critters with two, and of ’em, the two-legged kind is the worse.”
David asked, “Crooks—I mean outlaws?”
“Reckon y’all didn’t pass through Atlas, didchya?”
Jack answered, “We were in kind of a hurry to get over the mountains into California, and we had all the supplies we needed, until the wreck, anyway.”
Tom Bledsoe had long since lowered his rifle—a Winchester 1873—from a casual port arms to rest against his leg, the fingers of his left hand barely touching the muzzle to support it. “You’ll need a hand fetching anything else from the wreck?”
“There’s nothing left worth salvaging.”
“That’s a shame. You folks don’t have much left.”
“How far is it into town, into Atlas?”
“About two hours by wagon. My wife, Mrs. Bledsoe, her sister Margaret keeps school in Atlas, and young Bobby Lorkin rode out not more’n an hour back tellin’ us Margaret was feelin’ poorly and wanted Mary to look in on her. We reckon to set out early ‘morrow mornin’. Y’all got people in Atlas? Well, reckon not if’n y’all didn’t go a-stoppin’ there. You can stay with us