Joe and Tad, jackets buttoned and wool caps pulled down over their ears,
were gathering buffalo chips for fuel. For the first part of their
journey, wood had been theirs for the taking. But for the past ten days
there had been very little, and Joe supposed that this was partly
because there never had been very much in the first place and partly
because emigrants preceding him had cut down what there was. Joe tried
to put this vast prairie in a proper perspective.
The change in terrain had been gradual. No one day, or even the whole
trip so far, had revealed any startling differences. The hills in
Missouri were low and rolling and so was this country. But the Missouri
hills had been forested, and with very few exceptions the only trees
they'd found here had been growing along river or creek bottoms. Yet,
each day had brought its own changes. But Joe had to think of the whole
trip, and get the over-all picture, to place them correctly. When one
traveled only twenty or thirty miles, each night's camp seemed much like
the one preceding it. But each had differed, and much more startling
than any physical change in the country they'd traveled was the sense of
going a great distance.
Tenney's Crossing had been warm and friendly, with neighbors always at
hand, and not until they reached Independence had they in any sense of
the word felt alien. Going out of Independence, they'd passed homesteads
and settlements and felt at home there. But here there was only the
prairie, a vast thing that stretched on all sides. They were all alone,
wholly dependent on their own resources, and with no one else to whom
they might turn. It was, Joe felt, much like being suspended in space.
He didn't like the country and he was more than a little afraid of it.
But he hadn't mentioned his fears to Emma.
Buffalo chips in both hands, Tad put them in the sack Joe was carrying.
Joe glanced at him but made no comment. Tad seemed to be looking for
something, and sooner or later he would mention whatever he sought.
"How come?" he said finally. "How come, Pa?"
"How come what?"
"All this dry buffalo manure around and no buffalo."
"I don't know that myself," Joe admitted.
"We've come a right smart ways without seein' any, ain't we?"
"We sure have."
"Wouldn't you like to see some?"
"Yup."
"So would I. Do you think we'll get all the way to Oregon without
findin' any?"
"I don't know."
"How far are we from Oregon?"
"A long ways. Now if you'll stop asking questions, and start gathering
buffalo chips, we might get enough."
"Sure, Pa."
Mike, who had adapted himself to wagon life, sniffed eagerly at a bunch
of grass in which a jack rabbit had rested. Mike had had a wonderful
time stalking rabbits and prairie chickens, though he hadn't caught
anything as yet, and Joe looked worriedly at the dog.
Perhaps Jake Favors had been doing something besides trying to hire a
man who knew mules when he advised them to winter in Independence, for
the Trail had been anything except easy. It was easy to stay on, of
course, for all one had to do was follow the Platte River and the tracks
of the wagons that had gone before. Or, at least, stay near the Platte.
There must have been a great many emigrants this past season, for the
grass was cropped short by their animals and in some places it hadn't
grown back. In all such places--the mules had to eat well if they were
to work hard--it had been necessary to swerve to one side and find
grazing. It wasn't always easy because others had the same idea and
that, Joe knew now, was one of the reasons why the Oregon Trail was
several miles wide in some places.
However, though sometimes grass was hard to find, it could always be
found and that was a minor problem. A major one was that they were far
behind the schedule Joe had hoped to keep. It was just short of 700
miles between Independence and Laramie, and Joe had counted on making
the trip in thirty-five days at the very most. However, they were
already out thirty-two days and certainly they had a long way to go. Joe
didn't know just how far, for his calculations had been completely
upset.
Even for the first two weeks out of Laramie, Joe had not been able to
cover his hoped-for thirty miles a day. They'd been delayed by the
necessity of finding grass for the stock. Then had come near disaster.
Joe had awakened one morning and turned over for another few minutes'
sleep, for by the look of things it couldn't possibly be time to get up.
The morning was almost as black as the night had been. Then Joe came
awake with a start. As soon as he did so he knew that it was past the
time for getting up and that they were facing a storm.
Heavy, black clouds covered the sky so deeply that the sun could find no
crack to break through. Emma had come from the wagon to join Joe and for
a few seconds they had stood near each other while each gave comfort to
the other. They shared a weird and terrible feeling that they were
really lost on the endless prairie whose ceiling was now an even more
fierce plain of clouds. Then they hurriedly started a fire and cooked
breakfast before the forthcoming rain made it impossible to do so.
They'd scarcely started when lightning flashed and thunder boomed in a
wild and awful way. All about was space, with no sheltering trees or
hills, and thunder filled that space. The clouds opened up and cold
rain sluiced down. Joe was grateful for the double thickness of canvas
on the wagon. Except for Tad, who still refused to ride, his family
would be dry. A wetting wouldn't hurt Tad as long as he kept moving, and
if Joe had to put him there by main strength he would sleep in the wagon
at night. But heavy rain turned the Trail into a quagmire.
From that moment, the movement of the wagon had become slow and
torturing. Wheels sank halfway to the hubs. The mules strained and
slipped as they sought a solid footing, and only Joe's expert driving
kept them on their feet. They had to go on because it was unthinkable to
stop in this morass. There was no house, and as far as Joe could see, no
material for building one. For two days following the rain they had to
nibble at cold food because the soaked buffalo chips, the only fuel,
would not burn. Their clothing and almost everything inside the wagon
was mud-crusted and there was small use in cleaning anything because
five minutes afterward it was sure to be muddy again. The cold wind
following the rain was within itself evidence that this was bitter
country where snow would lie deep.
Worst of all, their provisions were running low. Grandpa Seeley had
advised him to load the wagon heavily with food, and Joe had followed
the advice. Before leaving Independence he had bought more, but his
family had always had hearty appetites and travel stimulated them. Joe
had shot a few jack rabbits, which even Mike found difficult to chew,
and a few prairie chickens which were delicious. But, though jack
rabbits were numerous, everybody else who came this way must have been
shooting prairie chickens, too. They were so wary that it was almost
impossible to get a shot at one now.
Joe continued to pick up buffalo chips the while he continued to worry.
They were so slowed by the mud that sometimes it seemed that they camped
one night almost in sight of last night's camp. Probably they traveled
farther than that, though Joe estimated that they hadn't covered more
than eight miles any day they'd been in the mud. He'd been able to buy
almost nothing at Fort Kearney; their commissary was low and the men
there were already on short rations. They'd told him he had enough to
last to Laramie, but they hadn't known about bad travel conditions.
They filled the sack with buffalo chips, bent their heads against the
cold north wind, and Joe quenched a rising uneasiness. Probably there
would be no very deep snow for several weeks. But any snow at all would
be sure to slow them up and they could afford no more delays. The
thought of his children going hungry clutched at him with an almost
physical pain. It was by no means certain that anyone else would come
this way before spring again made for good travel conditions, and even
if somebody did come the chances were good that they'd have nothing to
spare. Tad spoke from the muffled depths of his jacket collar.
"Think it will snow, Pa?"
"No. I don't think so."
He had halted the wagon on a grassy knoll that offered good drainage and
at least they'd be out of the mud tonight. The tethered mules and the
cow were eagerly cropping grass. Emma's chickens, that had come to
regard the wagon as their real home, were scratching vigorously in the
dirt. With night, they would go into their crate to roost. Emma and
Barbara, who had refashioned two of Joe's old pairs of trousers to fit
them--articles of clothing neither would have dreamed of wearing near
Tenney's Crossing but which were practical here--were arranging their
cook ware. They awaited only the buffalo chips.
"Here we are!" Joe sang out.
He plucked a handful of dry grass for tinder, arranged his fire, and
lighted it with a sulphur match that he took from a corked bottle. The
flames climbed hungrily through the grass and ate more slowly into the
chips. Joe remembered the roaring wood fires they'd had back in
Missouri, and he stirred uncomfortably. It was necessary to cross these
plains before they could go to Oregon, and there was nothing anyone
could do about them except cross. But Joe was just as happy that they
were not going to live here. Grandpa Seeley had known what he was
talking about when he spoke of the plains' vast loneliness.