All Together in One Place Page 16

  “Dropping excess,” Ruth said.

  “Perhaps it marks a grave,” Betha said. She wiped at her eyes. “I wish we'd marked Jed's. I should have stayed there, to bring him flowers Oh, will these tears ever stop?” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I think I'll lie down I just can't think right.”

  “It won't be very comfortable in the wagon,” Ruth said. “The road seems rougher here.”

  “Doesn't it,” Betha said and sighed.

  They stopped only briefly at noon. On their way again, Joe Pepin came back to say that a stream ahead dribbling into the Platte looked fresh and clear and that there were a few stands of good grass. He mentioned that a horse had died and lay rotting beside the trail with yellow jackets all over it.

  Other wagons were moving on past them, people staring ahead. A rider approached from the west. He folded his hands across the saddle pommel on his mule, talked with Antone, looked back at the new widows, shook his head, and continued east.

  The setting sun hurt their eyes with its brilliance. Elizabeth sat grateful at dusk after they'd circled the wagons, rubbing her bare feet, pulling stickers from the pads.

  “Me and the dog,” she said as Pig sat nibbling at his own paw.

  Mazy urged Jeremy to join them as they ambled back toward Ruth and Betha, handing each a chunk of her Dutch oven bread.

  Betha declined the food.

  “You've got to keep your strength up,” Mazy said. “For the children if no one else.”

  “For the children, then,” Betha sighed, and nibbled at the brown crust with her tiny, even front teeth.

  “You have so many good memories,” Mazy said.

  “I do.” Betha's eyes watered.

  “I don't even know Sister Esther's brother's name. And I hear her other brother's not feeling well now either.” Mazy put her biscuit down, aware that she wasn't hungry herself. She rubbed at her temple.

  “Harold,” Betha said. “I believe his name was Harold. He and Jed shared a love of a certain tobacco.” She leaned to whisper, “So does her brother Ferrel, but none are supposed to talk of it.”

  “I'm surprised that Sister Esther had a brother who smoked,” Jeremy said.

  “He imbibed a bit, too,” Betha said, turning to see where the children sat. “I believe it's why he and Jed formed a friendship.”

  “We shoulda waited for Papa,” Jessie said approaching the dog. “He won't like it we left him back there in the road.”

  “He ain't getting up, dummy,” Ned told her. He threw a rock and it pinged against a pot.

  “Is too!”

  “No, he ain't. He's dead.”

  Jessie started to cry. “Ned, please,” Ruth said. “She's young. She doesn't understand.”

  “You always take her side,” Ned said. “Don't she, Mama? Ain't that what you told Papa?”

  “I'm thirsty,” Jason said. “I'm getting me a drink from the Platte, Mama, like Papa used to.”

  “Without my boiling it? Shame on you.” To Mazy, Betha said, “I know it doesn't really matter if we drink the bugs, but the thought of live things squiggling in my throat…” She shivered.

  Mazy nodded. “I hate that tepid water. Tastes funny.”

  “Not the temperature that matters,” Jeremy told her. “Sinkholes we dig beside the Platte are as good as any to drink from.”

  “I'm with Betha,” Elizabeth said. “If we can avoid the swimming tails sliding through the teeth by boiling ‘em, all the better.”

  “Already drank from the stream,” Jeremy told her. “Laid on my belly quite a while back. So did lots of others. Stream's clear as air. Don't think it's anything to worry over.”

  “Are you feeling well?” she asked. “Your pants look baggy.”

  “All this walking is firming me up,” he told her.

  “There must have been some disease brought with us,” Sister Esther said.

  It was night. The moon had risen, just a swipe of silver in an ink sky. She'd come out to Mazy's campfire, carrying her desk, setting it down, just as Mazy wrote the word keeper and the accompanying thoughts in her book. One who tends to things, like a beekeeper. God minds and ministers as a keeper. He has made the bee able to find a home in the most distant, ravaged phces. He cares for the smallest of the universe and thus I thank thee, for finding me worthy of your keeping. Forgive me when I fail to keep the least within your world.

  “I'm sorry,” Mazy said closing the book latch. “What did you say?”

  “Someone carried it, delivered it here. The sickness.” The Sister paced, a behavior that looked foreign to her usual rigid, wagon-tongue demeanor. Her words took flight too, so the sizzle of her S s cracked the air like heat lightning. Mazy watched her striding back and forth between the wagon and the fire, thought to interrupt, but lacked sure-ness.

  “That child Jessie, she got ill first. Perhaps it is them, those people from St. Louis,” Sister Esther said as she rubbed the cross at her neck.

  “The child recovered.”

  “But her father died.” Esther paced but kept her fingers clenched together before her apron. “We did not have illness until we began encountering those from the south Platte who crossed over. Perhaps they bring it.”

  “You're grieved, Sister, over your brother's loss.”

  “A victim of the baseness of those of poor and filthy rank.”

  “We've no way of knowing,” Mazy said. She stood, touched the older woman s arm. “And there's no good in it, to blame and find fault.” She reached into a basket attached to the side board, pulled up a platter covered with a stained double bag. “Come sit beside me,” Mazy said, patting the ground. “Eat a bite of chicken. Focus on your brother who still lives, your charges who need you.”

  Sister Esther stared at her. “He sits silent as sage,” she said, “my brother does.”

  “He misses him. Your Celestials may well too.”

  “The Celestials.” Sister Esther spoke the name with numbness, and Mazy realized that her eyes showed no tears, weren't puffed the way Betha's or Suzanne's were. She was probably still shocked, still stunned more than angry. “Blame must be placed,” Esther said. “Disease is God's way of correction.”

  Mazy swallowed. She didn't like disagreeing with older people. She considered them wiser, more experienced than herself. “I saw many ill in my father's house, and they were undeserving, fine men and women and even children. I dont think God uses disease and death that way, as punishment. He makes good come of all things. Like stinging involved with gathering honey. It s how I met my Jeremy”

  “This cholera, if that is what it is, afflicts those with poor habits. Poor people have poor ways.”

  “But your brother—”

  “Must have hidden something from me,” she said with certainty. “A side of him I did not know.” Her eyes held a glazed look. Mazy felt her face grow hot from the warmth of the fire. Certainty wears a cat's face, she thought, wisdom wears a dogs.

  “I have bothered you,” Sister Esther said, then retrieved her desk and turned toward the wagon, her straight back disappearing into the black.

  By noon the next day, several more members of their party carried the symptoms. They shook, complained of a looseness in their bowels, exhibited a putrid color to their skin The afflicted lay confined, tightly holding themselves or being held by those who loved them, in stark contrast to their boundless surroundings beside a stream that flowed with freshness, in a land expansive and full of promise.

  Antone called a meeting, but it did not materialize as he too turned ill along with Hathaway Wilson and Sister Esther s second brother. The emigrants helped each other and moved on. Adora now drove the Wilsons’ wagon; one of the Celestials named Naomi drove the second brothers.

  That evening, Jeremy bent over, dropped almost to his knees.

  “Let me help,” Mazy said. She set the butter churn down, dropped the glob of cream destined for a biscuit “Tyrell!” she shouted. “Mother! Get the doctor!”

  Dr. Masters,
looking harried and rubbing the place on his nose where his glasses sat, suggested bismuth now, or acetate of lead. He shook his head and left.

  “He hasn't any of that, a course,” Elizabeth scowled as they laid Jeremy in the shade of the tent, pulled the flap back to offer breeze. “Used up our own laudanum too, almost. He said he could always bleed him.”

  “Not that, Mother.”

  “Course not. Barbarians, the lot, excepting your father.”

  “Someone wondered about the stew so many ate,” Mazy said. She laid a cool, wet cloth on Jeremy s forehead, pushing back a shock of hair.

  “Ate that myself. So did you,” Elizabeth said. “Cant be that.” She cleared her throat and spoke low. “Its cholera, that's sure. Try to keep liquids down him, and we'll restock the laudanum in Laramie—it's all we can do.”

  “I think we should stay here. The traveling's hard on people, confined in the wagons, then jostled about. That little girl, Jessie, she recovered when we stayed a day. The day you were off antelope gathering gave her a rest.”

  Jeremy groaned. “Keep going,” he said.

  “Your insides are coming out both ends,” Mazy said. “You need tea. I can't keep it hot on the trail. I can't handle Mother's wagon and do that, too.”

  “I'll manage my wagon,” Elizabeth said. “You worry over yours.”

  “That's what I'm doing,” Mazy said, her voice raised. “We stay. So we can tend to Jeremy. Others might wish to stop too. Lura Schmidtke has her hands full with Antone, and Mariah's not doing well either. I heard a Celestial was ailing too We can boil things, bathe Jeremy, have better food. He looks so…blue,” Mazy said. Tears burned behind her nose. She swallowed and fought them back. “The only Wisconsin men whore well are Charles andTyrell. They'll succumb to fatigue if we don't rest. He looks so blue.”

  Hadn't she just said that? Yes, she had. She could feel the repetition, the thing she did when fear settled on her neck. She repeated thoughts as though it sent her roots deeper against a prevailing wind. “Well pray over everyone who's ill. That's what we need to do now. Not move. Stay here.”

  Elizabeth stared at her.

  “Antone's in no shape to dictate. I'm stopping,” Mazy said. “The water's good. Grass too. Well get a decent amount of milk. That'll help. Well stay and pray.”

  By morning few were better, but no more had died. Tipton brushed her hair over and over, a luxury. Her parents had decided to stay too, her mother a little weaker than usual, though showing no signs of what had claimed the others. Hathaway had taken a fever. Tipton looked in on her father, but his shaking had frightened her, so she sought refuge in Tyrell's presence.

  “Papa's awful ill,” she said. Tyrell bent beneath the Quivers’ wagon, checking the wagon reach Finished, he stood, put one arm around Tipton, and pulled her to him, not saying anything, just holding her close.

  “Help your mama, Tip. It'll help you too. Keeping busy, it's good for reducing a person's worrying.” He smoothed her hair back from her face, tucked strands into a ribbon holding it at the back of her neck. She sunk into his chest, inhaled the scent of him, drinking in his comfort.

  “Got to check the other wagons,” he said. “Step careful now. Don't want you hurt.” He eased her out of the way. “I don't ever want you hurt.”

  “Mrs Cullver?” Tyrell said loud enough for someone inside the wagon to hear. “Folks are resting a day. Think that might be wise if you've no objection.”

  “And if I did?”

  “Then I'd see if the Bacons wished to go forward today too, seeing as how I'm still driving under their canvas, so to speak.”

  “Mr. Bacons taken ill himself,” Tipton offered. “I think its best to stop.”

  “Are you willing to drive me back, Mr. Jenkins?” Suzanne said, her head now out of the canvas opening, her chin lifted so her blank eyes looked up toward the sky. Tipton noticed she never looked in the direction people spoke. “I could pay well for the effort. It s clear I can't drive the thing myself.” She made her way over the seat and, feeling along the side, stopped to suck at her hand as though she'd just picked up little slivers.

  Tyrell reached up to her, said, “Put out your right hand. I'll help you down”

  She had long fingers and wore a heavy ring with some kind of blue stone set in a twisting setting that covered the length between her knuckles Suzanne put her hand into Tyrell's, and he closed his palm over hers to balance.

  Tipton thought her heart would break with Tyrell's touch to the widow.

  Funny how she'd begun to think of Suzanne as the widow already, the woman's status changing from “that blind woman” to “the widow” in an instant. In profile, the woman's roundness, the sign of her pregnancy, caused Tipton to turn away. What would it be like for her baby to be born without its father, to an unseeing mother?

  Suzanne stood, brushed off her apron, and felt along the wagon side for the rope she tied around her waist. Tyrell left the oxen yoked but moved them inside the half circle of wagons, directing both women to stand back out of the way. “I've tied the rope to Clayton, missus,” he said then, giving it a tug so she could feel the connection to her son.

  “Puppy,” Clayton squealed as Pig trotted over and pushed against Suzanne, causing her to stop.

  “It looks like he doesn't want you to stumble into the fire,” Tipton said

  Suzanne turned partway toward Tipton's voice.

  “The dog stops just before you're about to step somewhere you shouldn't Curious, if you ask me”

  “No one has,” Suzanne said. She turned back. As she did, the rope at her waist pulled slightly, tugging on Clayton. The toddler sat now, rope cinched around his middle, slapping at the dirt, his face smudged with the fruits of his effort

  “Since we're staying, believe I'll sneak away and see if I can't bring back some venison,” Tyrell said. “Good meat'U be defense against this, whatever this is. Won't be able to hunt once we get closer to the fort.”

  “You're hunting for her?” Tipton asked.

  Suzanne snorted. “I couldn't care less. I suspect it's for any who have need of it, girl. Mr. Jenkins is that kind.”

  Tipton was glad the widow couldn't see Tyrell blush. “You could use some meat on those bones, Tip.” He winked, tipped his hat to her, said, “Ladies, see you later,” and strode away

  “Tipton!” her mother wailed. “Come here this minute.”

  “Sorry I can't stay to help you,” Tipton said to Suzanne.

  “I've no need of anyone's help.”

  “That's what you'll likely get,” Tipton said and hurried away.

  How long did it take to kill a deer, dress it out, and return? Tipton and Tyrell had seen a small herd last evening grazing at a distance. They would have bedded down, not moved far at all. Tyrell said deer rarely moved at night. He should have been back before midday. Charles had been gone most of the day too. The two of them wouldn't have hunted together, Tipton didn't think, but they'd left about the same time. Maybe he'd gotten a late start.

  “What was the ruckus about?” Elizabeth said, falling in step beside her. “Between Charles and your Tyrell?”

  “I didn't see anything,” Tipton said.

  “MustVe heard it, words so hot they could have raised the dead. Oh, best I not say that.”

  “I've never heard Tyrell raise his voice.”

  “Looked to me like an argument over something in the Quivers’ wagon that showed up in your brother's sticky paws.” Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “Everyone already so grieved, and he takes advantage. You didn't train him right, child.”

  “You can't train a snake,” Tipton told her as she and Elizabeth approached the Wilsons’ wagon.

  “Your fathers worse,” Adora told them.

  Tiptons mother pulled at her handkerchief in between trying to get him to sip water or hyssop tea as Tipton and Elizabeth stepped past her, inside the wagon. Hathaway shivered and shook, his eyes frightened almost, shifting. “Charles should have stayed to help,” Tipton said, tryin
g to get her father to take a drink.

  What Mazy planned didn't matter. All the green grasses, all the prayers, all the promise of this pleasant place did not forestall the losses.

  Hathaway Wilson, the robust mercantile owner formerly of Cass-ville, Wisconsin, Adoras faithful husband, and Charles and Tiptons beloved father, died at noon.

  His death was followed by Tyrell's.

  10

  of longing and light

  It was with Mazy s arm around her that Tipton gazed at last on her intended.

  Together, they watched Charles ride in from a distance, leading a mule. Tipton stared at the familiar clothing, squinting, assessing what was out of place. Sunburst spurs hung from Charles's saddlehorn. Diggers, Tyrell called them, an old term he said was more descriptive than a spur. Then her fingers found their way into her mouth, pressed the flesh against her teeth until the pain exploded in her brain.

  Mazy tried to pull her back while Matt Schmidtke and Joe Pepin lowered the body of Tyrell onto the grass, his face a distorted pulp of black powder and flesh.

  “Took a shot at a buck,” Charles said as though discussing a sudden change in the weather. He sat atop his horse, gloved hands loosely holding the reins, crossed and resting on the saddle pommel. His horse lifted a back leg to scratch at a fly, stomped back, and Charles settled, shifted without effort. “Blew in the barrel before reloading. Charge hadn't fired, and it discharged into his mouth. Stupid,” Charles said.

  “We all do it,” Joe Pepin defended. “Have myself often enough with a flintlock.”

  “Still stupid. Hows Father?” Charles asked then.

  “Your pa went home this morning,” Joe Pepin told him, Adams apple bobbing. “Sorry, son.”

  Charles's face didn't change, but his words took on a swampy edge. “Your fault,” he said. He blew air of disgust through his nostrils.

  “Mine?” Joe said, his bushy eyebrows raised in question.

  Tipton knew her brother spoke to her.