Crossing Purgatory (6 page)

Weather continued hot and dry, the trail dust-choked but firm as a barn floor. The miles passed. Water ran clear, and the bottomland still provided sufficient deadfall to feed cooking fires. Thompson proved an appreciated hunter for the company, killing a black-tailed deer one evening that provided small portions for each wagon. Another morning, three turkeys he'd called from a hackberry thicket just after sunup. He found comfort wandering alone in the wilds. Often without warning a dark memory would cloud his awareness for no reason other than he'd allowed his mind to wander back to Indiana before he'd thought to check it, and some unreasoned but necessary instinct would turn him away from the wagons and he would disappear into the grass or down a gully only to regain his senses hours later and miles away.

But on the days he remained clear-headed, he guided Captain Upperdine's wagon during the march, freeing the Captain to scout ahead on horseback or to check the position of other wagon trains along the trail. And, on those good days, he often supped with the Lights, drawn to the reassuring ideal of family. They'd sit together in the growing dusk and Thompson would race beetles against Joseph. They'd draw a circle in the dirt and spend considerable time selecting their specimen from the insects that were ubiquitous along the trail, feeding on the droppings of the thousands of animals that passed by.

“This one here is a brute,” Thompson might say. “Bigger across than my thumbnail.”

“But mine's sleek,” Joseph might counter. “Built for speed.”

They'd place the two insects together in the center of the circle and wager future riches on the first to break from the ring. Hanna expressed mild disapproval of their gambling, even on imaginary stakes, but did not forbid their game. Joseph quickly became a millionaire at Thompson's expense.

Other evenings, Thompson might spend time with little Martha, braiding necklaces from grass and wildflowers or whittling a stick figure for her. He'd linger around the camp watching Hanna put Martha to bed, and then perhaps he'd sit while Obadiah was at his pipe before retiring to his own fire, either to sleep or to lie awake into the night, staring into the endless black sky, imagining a life in Indiana no longer within his reach, as distant and inaccessible as the stars overhead.

Whenever they could, the company set camp beside water where trees might provide shade and where there was good forage. Evenings, Thompson took to walking out into the tall grass, to whatever rise might present itself, to scout for game. If he suspected upland birds or waterfowl, he borrowed a fowling piece from Upperdine; if larger game, his own long rifle. On occasion, Obadiah's son, Joseph, accompanied him. Thompson found he enjoyed the boy's company because Joseph, like Thompson, had little use for extended conversation. Still, Thompson learned a little about him on their hunts. Sitting one evening on a hill looking out over an open meadow, Thompson asked:

“An expansive land, don't you think, Joseph?”

“A empty one, I'll give you that.”

“You don't see opportunity out here?”

“No, sir; I see a whole lot of nothing.”

They sat in silence. Thompson pointed to a shadow at the far end of the meadow. A black bear edged from shadow into light and back into shadow.

“Should we pursue?” Joseph asked. Thompson shook his head, no. Joseph seemed disappointed, looking first at the bear and then to Thompson, like a pup begging to retrieve.

“It is moving away from us and we are losing the day,” Thompson explained. “Your mother would worry if we were long past dark chasing the beast.”

Joseph laughed derisively, surprising Thompson. “Not likely,” Joseph said.

They returned to camp and Joseph went to a cold supper while Obadiah greeted Thompson.

“Good of you to let the boy tag along with you.”

“He seems unenthused about your journey,” Thompson said.

“Difficult for him. He's of an age. Left his pards back home. May have been sweet on some girl, I don't know.”

Thompson nodded. “It hurts to leave someone behind.” He turned from the Lights' camp and walked alone into the outlying country as the day ended. The prairie sun had begun to burn the grass brown, but wildflowers were in bloom still, the goldenrod, the pink and purple four o'clock, and the brilliant blue flax. Many evenings when the press of other people tightened his chest, Thompson would sit alone out of view of the caravan and watch the blooms fold with the day and feel like the only human being on the face of the earth, utterly alone but at once filled with his surroundings, a bearable solitude.

T
HE COMPANY PUSHED ON
,
HOUR
after hour, mile upon mile. Some days clouds brought shade, some days none. Most days brought wind, and, with it, dust. The settlers came to pray for the occasional shower that cooled the land and tamed the dust. But rain came at a cost. At first the drizzle was welcomed. Often, however, drizzle turned to rain, sometimes driving, and soon the road became slick on the grades and muddy on flat stretches. Progress slowed, boots caked with muck, wagon wheels mired. One discomfort exchanged for another. Day after day, a new challenge, a new test.

As they sank into the routine, travel grew tedious because of the mud, or because of the dust, tedium the one constant.

5

T
hey came eventually into the valley of the Neosho River, an oasis of wooded draws and cultivated fields: corn and hay in the lowlands, cattle on the hillsides. They arrived in Council Grove midday and some wanted to pause, but Captain Upperdine pushed them through.

“River flow is unpredictable. We'll cross while the water allows.”

They camped a few miles outside of town. Some of the men, Tom Barksdale's two oldest, the wheelwright Calderwood, and one other Thompson did not know well approached him after supper. The wheelwright spoke.

“Few of us of a mind to see what Council Grove is about, if you care to join us.”

Passing through earlier in the day, Thompson had noticed the graceful set of the town, the wide main street, and the whitewashed shops advertising everything from sacks of oats to fine whiskey. He had use for neither, although he understood the men's curiosity.

“Obliged, but I have things to look to.”

The following morning, Thompson noticed a group of men congregated around Captain Upperdine's cook fire, and he walked over. The men dispersed before Thompson arrived. Upperdine looked perplexed.

“Trouble?” Thompson asked.

“No more than expected. Calderwood has decided to forgo his plans for Bent's Fort and to establish his trade here.”

“It's unfortunate to lose a wheelwright,” Thompson said.

“Can't shackle him, I guess.”

The company broke camp with one wagon fewer and pushed on to Diamond Springs, named after its clear, good water. The area was more sparsely inhabited than Council Grove, but a scattering of small farms dotted the landscape and the fields looked healthy. Upperdine laid over a day to graze the stock, and he bought a few sacks of feed at a fair price for insurance against barren stretches he knew the company would soon encounter.

Diamond Springs proved an alluring charm for three other families. At supper with the Lights, Obadiah sat with Thompson while a subdued Hanna put Martha to bed.

“The Grissoms will disembark here,” Obadiah said. “Hanna is sore pressed to let go her friend Susan.”

“Bonds form quickly on the trail, I imagine,” Thompson said. “And there are few other women to visit with.”

“We were tempted as well,” Obadiah said.

“And why not?” Thompson asked. “This land recommends itself.”

“I have my heart set on the open plains. Near Walnut Creek, perhaps, or just beyond. I hear there is an army outpost in the planning.” Obadiah went to the front of his wagon and retrieved a leather pouch. “Friends in Ohio have kin in Odessa who sent them this.”

Obadiah untied the drawstring and pulled out a handful of redtinged seed and let them sift back into the bag. “A strain of wheat said to prosper in dry climates. Plant it in autumn. Sprouts early winter, goes dormant until spring. Benefits from the snows and early rains and ripens before drought sets in. I aim to try it.”

Thompson absently listened to Obadiah go on about the potential for a wheat crop, while silently grateful to have them along for some miles yet. He enjoyed their company and, unsure of his plans, uncertain whether he'd ever come upon a place that would feel right for him, he found comfort in the Lights' unalloyed hopefulness. They dared plan a future, farming the great unplowed expanses.

The following morning, only eleven wagons departed. Two nights out from Diamond Springs, Thompson took last watch, from three until five. As dawn approached, a breeze came up from the northwest and stars began to disappear as a cloudbank rolled in. Daybreak brought rain. A steady, light shower fell early and let up, but the men all became soaked past the waist when they waded through wet grass leading the stock to harness. Rain had muddied the road as well, and travel slogged. Midmorning, high gray clouds gave way to a menacing black sheet that advanced on them from due west with a stiffening wind. They did not stop for noon. Upperdine pressed to make Cottonwood Crossing before rain, and indeed they forded just ahead of a blustery storm that churned the creek with runoff from the low banks. That evening, Upperdine confided to Thompson that he was happy to have passed Cottonwood Creek quickly lest its attraction lure yet others from the train.

“Did you notice the trees along the banks, those few log cabins on the hills?”

Thompson allowed that he had.

“That is the last community worth glancing at we'll see before Bent's Fort except for an outpost or two. And the last of the trees as well.”

The weather took on a pattern. Clear mornings turning hazy, and by afternoon thunderstorms came on with a vengeance, clouds booming, lightning flashing across the darkened prairie, and rain in torrents. By the time they made Turkey Creek, its banks were overflowed and six feet of brown, roiling water rushed the channel that normally held two. Thompson set camp with the Lights and they tried to dry off under the canvas of the wagon covers and eat a cold supper, cornbread and slices of dried apple. A lucky few had managed to keep bedrolls dry, but for most of the party, rain had found its way through slickers, between folds and splits in the wagon canvas, onto blankets and spare clothing and into boots. Night passed without fire, damp and shivering. Morning brought heavy drizzle and lifting skies, and they were able to light fires that put up dense smoke from sodden wood. They laid over all that day waiting for the creek to subside. Storms still raged to the northwest, and the creek ran fast and brown.

Midday, Thompson hiked to a rise and sat on his haunches and scanned the middle and far distances for game. In the gray light, the horizon blended into sky, so that he was unsure just where one ended and the other began. The grass, tall and returning to a light green from the rain, melted into the gray of the sky so that Thompson had the feeling he was staring into a flat, dimensionless sheet hanging from a line. Then, not a hundred yards away, a great beast stood from its wallow as if rising out of the prairie itself. The buffalo shook its head and its thick beard released a spray of mud and water. It started off at an angle toward the creek as another buffalo crested a small hill that Thompson had not even realized was there, and ambled after the first. Thompson kept low and maneuvered for a shot, but the animals moved with a surprising speed given their bulk and they entered the creek some hundred-fifty yards above him. The current mid-stream was fast and angry, and it pushed the buffalo downstream as they plowed forward so that they left the water on the far bank almost directly across from Thompson. They stood not forty yards from him, shaking the water from their mantles and pawing at the gravel of the creek bank. Thompson watched the two bulls. He could have taken them with his rifle but had no way of knowing when he might be able to retrieve the meat, so he passed up the shot and just watched them, all shag and sinew, until they climbed the creek bank and walked off into the high grass to the west. He wondered how they'd appeared from nowhere. An empty prairie one second and two behemoths filling his vision the next. Wondered how to develop eyesight in this strange land. A new perception required?

The grass still held the rain so that by the time he returned to the company early in the evening, Thompson again was soaked. He sparked his campfire to life, fed it dry grass he pulled from under the shelter of the wagon, then small twigs, then limbs. He removed his outer tunic and propped it on two sticks close to the fire to dry, and pulled on his one spare shirt. Afterward, he thought to inform Captain Upperdine about the buffalo, but he saw Obadiah talking with him. They looked in earnest discussion and rather than disturb them, he walked to the Lights' wagon and found Hanna at the back gate, tending to Martha. She'd wrapped her in a blanket against the dampness and had nestled her on a straw mattress. Hanna had placed a camphor poultice on the child's chest and was mopping her forehead with a wet cloth.

“A little sage tea,” she said, to herself. She hadn't noticed Thompson approach.

“I'll watch her,” he said. She started at his voice.

“I'll just brew up a little sage tea,” she repeated, “and return shortly.”

Martha appeared feverish to Thompson. Her hand was at her throat, massaging it. Her neck looked swollen. He stroked her head. He cooed, and then clucked like a chicken and Martha looked up at him and giggled. A little.

“Caught a chill from the rain, is all,” Hanna said, coming up beside him, placing her hands to the small of her back, arching. A grimace. Her pregnant belly swollen. Would she birth on the trail, Thompson wondered?

“She'll be fine,” Thompson assured, and nodded to Obadiah who had returned from his visit with Upperdine.