Authors: Avi
Hard Gold (10 page)
God have mercy!
After the river tragedy, Mrs. Bunderly no longer wished to stay inside our wagon. I, too, was nervous the rest of the way. Lizzy gripped my hand.
We got across and reached the landing place. Once on the far banks, we worked our way through the little town of Omaha, which I was told had been made by the Mormons. Fewer houses than Council Bluffs, mostly log built; a few streets; plus one hotel, and a sea of mud.
We camped in a grove of cottonwood trees, perhaps two miles beyond the terrible river. Mrs. Bunderly sobbed loud prayers of thanks, and I joined in, thinking mostly of that poor, lost babe.
Lizzy sat upon the ground, clutched her knees, and sang softly to herself.
Having seen the tragedy in the river, we were forcibly reminded of the many dangers that lay ahead—dangers of which we had no true knowledge.
That said, we were safely across. After almost a month of travel we had at last entered Nebraska Territory! All we had to do was get across the most of it, and there we’d be, right along Cherry Creek.
With Jesse.
And Mr. Mawr.
B
EYOND OMAHA was a great crowd of wagons. They were just sitting there, as if catching breath for what was going to happen next—crossing what was called the Great American Desert.
The four wagons we had had when we began had been reduced to three. Word was that you didn’t dare go across in a train of fewer than twelve. Much too dangerous. You might lose your way, meet hostile Indians, stampeding buffalo, hungry wolves, or catch all manner of sicknesses, suffer wagon breakdowns or dying oxen, or a millions other perils you never considered when you began. No wonder emigrants believed in the safety of numbers, with sometimes as many as fifty wagons in a train.
When Mr. Bunderly was about to go off with the men to find a bigger train to join, I heard Mrs. Bunderly say, “Mr. Bunderly, I beg you. Let’s go no farther. I’ll not survive.”
“Cheerful heart,” he returned, “you’ve managed magnificently thus far. Certainly some hazards lurk before us. But with courage and fortitude, we shall find prosperity and excellent health hovering beyond the horizon.”
“I am ill, Mr. Bunderly, ill! Words can’t cure me.”
A little later, I asked Lizzy, “Is your ma doing very poorly?”
“I think so,” she answered. “Her fevers come in waves, and she’s exhausted. And even more frightened. Early,” she said, “I pity her, but her whole world is her ailments. It’s too small for me.”
I watched and listened as our people, trying to join a bigger train, went around and talked to other emigrants. There was much debate about which route to take, but also about traveling rules—Sabbath travel, liquor, who would be in charge of what: night watch, scouting, hunting, what tasks would women or children do, and the like. Endless rules, debates, and finally agreements.
Even when a train was set, there were debates about who was going to be captain and who lieutenant. The men all agreed you had to organize military style, this being the only way to deal with the trail dangers. That said, I did see one solitary fellow heading west, pushing nothing but a wheelbarrow into which his provisions were piled. I always wondered what became of him. I cannot believe he survived—but perhaps he did, and struck it rich at that.
I really did see people head out from Omaha pushing barrows laden with digging tools.
I wonder how many made it.
In the end we linked up with fifteen wagons—some twenty families, with extra hands like I was—emigrants from Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Ohio. All told, our train had about ninety-five souls, mostly men, but women and children, too. To be sure, Mr. Mawr was one of the men. He was not going to lose me.
There certainly were all kinds of people crossing the plains.
Our chosen captain was a Mr. Ezekiel Boxler out of Wisconsin state. He got the post because this was his second trip (he having returned to collect his family), and he claimed he knew the way. A Mr. Khlor from Missouri was selected as lieutenant.
After two days of organizing—everything from nightly guard duty to what kind of card games were allowed (euchre and cribbage)—it was agreed we’d start the next morning. Our plan was to take the Platte River route halfway across the Nebraska Territory, then follow the south branch of the Platte, which would lead us right to Cherry Creek. Though somewhat longer than other routes, it was considered safer.
At the last moment, Apollo, Lizzy’s pig, disappeared. We searched everywhere, but to no avail. Furious, she believed he had been stolen. I suspected she was right.
“You may not believe me, Mr. Early,” she said, “but Apollo was my truest friend. It is hard to think of one’s best friend as having been eaten.”
“I could take his place,” I offered. “I’m not particularly eatable.”
She was not amused.
May 23
What can one say about a slow journey across a desert? To begin, I can say only that it made home seem a long way back, and the future that much further. Secondly, it was most amazing how vast the land was. Not always flat but often rolling, sometimes even hilly. In the main, though, it was level, with a horizon always unreachable.
But while you might think such a barren place would have no people, in truth, not a trail day passed without our seeing some settler’s home built of wood scraps, an old wagon, or sod, established midway between nowhere and nothing. We also passed many a tumbledown structure that sold liquor, in a world no true spirits could inhabit. Dreadful, filthy places they were; our train always passed them by.
Now and again we saw Indians—the Pawnee people at first, then Sioux, and finally Arapaho, who gazed at us even as we gazed at them, strangers to one another.
Yet the most amazing thing—considering all the open space—was the sight of so many wagons toiling in the same direction as we. Sometimes it seemed as if the entire eastern half of our nation had tipped itself so high, everybody was tumbling down west—an endless parade of big white ants.
This will give you an idea about the great numbers of people crossing the Great American Desert!
At night, when all were camped, you could see fires flaring in a continuous line that marked the trail from wherever you were into the distant darkness that always was there. When I had guard duty—rifle and Mr. Boxler’s old bugle at my side, every third night from eight to twelve—the fires were a comfort.
Seeing all those wagons and people, I could only hope that the gold we were seeking was truly abundant. Having heard otherwise, I worried much about the lot of unhappy emigrants with empty pockets, sore bodies, and broken hearts. Had we not already seen some of them? The more I knew of Lizzy, the more certain I was that she would prevail. But the more I understood of Mr. and Mrs. Bunderly, the more certain I became that they’d made a mistake by having come. Too frail, by far.
How often did I console myself with Jesse’s words:
I have found gold! Enough to pay our debt.
How much I tried to put my faith in that.
May 24
At a triple blast of Mr. Boxler’s bugle we commenced our trek from Omaha in the morning and went five miles across the high prairie. Along the trail, grass grew abundantly, which meant cattle could graze.
With the days dry and the sun hot, the trains kicked up a world of dust!
Midday we spied a line of trees far out to the northwest that we hoped marked the Platte River—our main route west. But first we crossed the Elkhorn River on a government bridge.
Then, after three more miles, we saw some Pawnee Indians. Some of them stopped and asked for food. If I understood matters, they were at war with the Sioux.
It must be said that though Indians were much feared, and some emigrants recounted tales of stolen horses or tragic raids, the Indians we saw never committed a hostile act against us.
May 27
It was a few days before we reached the Platte River, which we intended to follow until we reached Cherry Creek. The Platte was wide and shallow, sometimes beautiful, sometimes drab, its muddy waters warm, with many islands big and small.
Nor did we just stay on one side. Since the river had many loops and turns, it created marshlands and quicksands. Here Mr. Boxler’s knowledge proved vital, for he led us back and forth over the river so as to avoid such places.
Sometimes the trail was fine though rutted. By the deep ruts, you could see how many countless others had already passed. Other times it was sandy, so wheels sank down. That made it hard for our laboring oxen. All too often there would be but brackish water or sparse prairie grass for our animals to feed on, plus swarms of mosquitoes, who fed on us.
Once, when we were crossing the river, we hauled up on an island only to have high winds blow in, so that our wagons were stuck midstream for two days.
May 30
As we went on, there were dispiriting markers to show the way—by which I mean, the many trailside graves. Mr. Boxler said the trail was the longest cemetery in the world. I could see for myself how many had come, how many went on, and how many stayed behind.
Also left behind were broken wagons, worn boots, discarded goods that had proved too heavy or useless. Once we came upon an abandoned piano.