MANDY McGOVERN ON MARRIAGE
Our slow travel finally brought us near to the historic forks of the
Platte where that shallow stream stretches out two arms, one running to
the mountains far to the south, the other still reaching westward for a
time. Between these two ran the Oregon Trail, pointing the way to the
Pacific, and on this trail, somewhere to the west, lay Laramie. Before
us now lay two alternatives. We could go up the beaten road to Laramie,
or we could cross here and take an old trail on the north side of the
river for a time. Auberry thought this latter would give better feed and
water, and perhaps be safer as to Indians, so we held a little council
over it.
The Platte even here was a wide, treacherous stream, its sandy bottom
continuously shifting. At night the melted floods from the mountains
came down and rendered it deeper than during the day, when for the most
part it was scarcely more than knee deep. Yet here and there at any
time, undiscoverable to the eye, were watery pitfalls where the sand was
washed out, and in places there was shifting quicksand, dangerous for
man or animal.
"We'll have to boat across," said Auberry finally. "We couldn't get the
wagons over loaded." Wherefore we presently resorted to the old Plains
makeshift of calking the wagon bodies and turning them into boats, it
being thought probable that two or three days would be required to make
the crossing in this way. By noon of the following day our rude boats
were ready and our work began.
I was not yet strong enough to be of much assistance, so I sat on the
bank watching the busy scene. Our men were stripped to the skin, some of
the mountaineers brown almost as Indians, for even in those days white
hunters often rode with no covering but the blanket, and not that when
the sun was warm. They were now in, now out of the water, straining at
the lines which steadied the rude boxes that bore our goods, pulling at
the heads of the horses and mules, shouting, steadying, encouraging,
always getting forward. It took them nearly an hour to make the first
crossing, and presently we could see the fire of their farther camp, now
occupied by some of those not engaged in the work.
As I sat thus I was joined by Mandy McGovern, who pulled out her
contemplative pipe. "Did you see my boy, Andy Jackson?" she asked. "He
went acrost with the first bunch--nary stitch of clothes on to him. He
ain't much thicker'n a straw, but say--he was a-rastlin' them mules and
a-swearin' like a full-growed man! I certainly have got hopes that boy's
goin' to come out all right. Say, I heerd him tell the cook this mornin'
he wasn't goin' to take no more sass off n him. I has hopes--I certainly
has hopes, that Andrew Jackson '11 kill a man some time yit; and like
enough it'll be right soon."
I gave my assent to this amiable hope, and presently Mandy went on.
"But say, man, you and me has got to get that girl acrost somehow,
between us. You know her and me--and sometimes that Englishman--travels
along in the amberlanch. She's allowed to me quiet that when the time
come for her to go acrost, she'd ruther you and me went along. She's all
ready now, if you air."
"Very good," said I, "we'll go now--they've got a fire there, and are
cooking, I suppose."
Mandy left me, and I went for my own horse. Presently we three, all
mounted, met at the bank. Taking the girl between us, Mandy and I
started, and the three horses plunged down the bank. As it chanced, we
struck a deep channel at the send-off, and the horses were at once
separated. The girl was swept out of her saddle, but before I could
render any assistance she called out not to be alarmed. I saw that she
was swimming, down stream from the horse, with one hand on the pommel.
Without much concern, she reached footing on the bar at which the horse
scrambled up.
"Now I'm good and wet," laughed she. "It won't make any difference after
this. I see now how the squaws do."
We plunged on across the stream, keeping our saddles for most of the
way, sometimes in shallow water, sometimes on dry, sandy bars, and now
and again in swift, swirling channels; but at last we got over and fell
upon the steaks of buffalo and the hot coffee which we found at the
fire. The girl presently left us to make such changes in her apparel as
she might. Mandy and I were left alone once more.
"It seems to me like it certainly is too bad," said she bitterly, over
her pipe stem, "that there don't seem to be no real man around nowhere
fittin' to marry a real woman. That gal's good enough for a real man,
like my first husband was."
"What could he do?" I asked her, smiling.
"Snuff a candle at fifty yards, or drive a nail at forty. He nach'elly
scorned to bring home a squirrel shot back of the ears. He killed four
men in fair knife fightin', an' each time come free in co'te. He was six
foot in the clean, could hug like a bar, and he wa'n't skeered of
anything that drawed the breath of life."
"Tell me, Aunt Mandy," I said, "tell me how he came courting you,
anyway."
"He never did no great at co'tin'," said she, grinning. "He just come
along, an' he sot eyes on me. Then he sot eyes on me again. I sot eyes
on him, too."
"Yes?"
"One evenin', says he, 'Mandy, gal, I'm goin' to marry you all right
soon.'
"Says I, '_No_, you ain't!'
"Says he, '_Yes_, I air!' I jest laughed at him then and started to run
away, but he jumped and ketched me--I told you he could hug like a bar.
Mebbe I wasn't hard to ketch. Then he holds me right tight, an' says
he,' Gal, quit this here foolin'. I'm goin' to marry you, you
hear!--then maybe he kisses me--law! I dunno! Whut business is it o'
yourn, anyhow? That's about all there was to it. I didn't seem to keer.
But that," she concluded, "was a real _man_. He shore had my other two
men plumb faded."
"What became of your last husband, Mandy?" I asked, willing to be amused
for a time. "Did he die?"
"Nope, didn't die."
"Divorced, eh?"
"Deevorced, hell! No, I tole you, I up an' left him."
"Didn't God join you in holy wedlock, Mandy?"
"No, it was the Jestice of the Peace."
"Ah?"
"Yep. And them ain't holy none--leastways in Missouri. But say, man,
look yere, it ain't God that marries folks, and it ain't Jestices of the
Peace--it's _theirselves_."
I pondered for a moment. "But your vow--your promise?"
"My promise? Whut's the word of a woman to a man? Whut's the word of a
man to a woman? It ain't words, man, it's _feelin's_."
"In sickness or in health?" I quoted.
"That's all right, if your _feelin's_ is all right. The Church is all
right, too. I ain't got no kick. All I'm sayin' to you is, folks marries
_theirselves_."
I pondered yet further. "Mandy," said I, "suppose you were a man, and
your word was given to a girl, and you met another girl and couldn't get
her out of your head, or out of your heart--you loved the new one most
and knew you always would--what would you do?"
But the Sphinx of womanhood may lie under linsey-woolsey as well as
silk. "Man," said she, rising and knocking her pipe against her bony
knee, "you talk like a fool. If my first husband was alive, he might
maybe answer that for you."