The Daughter's Walk (7 page)

My feet scraped along the Union Pacific outside of Umatilla, Oregon, and I remembered reading
Astoria
, a history book written by Washington Irving about the Astor fur-trading expedition coming this way, the first big cross-country expedition west after Lewis and Clark returned. There'd been one woman in that party, a Madam Dorion, and she'd walked or ridden a horse from St. Louis, Missouri, all this way, heading to the Pacific. At least Madam Dorion had the luxury of traveling with her husband and sixty men. She'd also brought her two young boys with her instead of leaving them behind.

Red willows bushed up beside the Umatilla River, which ran right through the Umatilla Indian reservation. Those Indians had been
friendly in the book I'd read, had helped Madam Dorion when she got into trouble. Nevertheless, I hoped we wouldn't encounter any and said as much to Mama.

“Me either,” she said, for the first time not minimizing my concern.

We both heard the clatter of rocks at the same time. “What's that?” she said. I saw the tramp first and pointed.

He was shorter than both my mother and I but much stockier. He wore baggy pants with holes in the knees. His pockets bulged, and an old tweed jacket covered what looked like two shirts. The coat was stained with spots big enough to be seen even though he was a good twenty yards from us. He must have been sleeping in the bushes as we walked by. Our chattering probably woke him up. Clumps of mud hung on his pants, but mud hung on us as well. I didn't know if he was a
stygging
, a nasty man, or one like us, walking the rails.

Mama put the grip in front of her and dug into her stride, saying, “Keep walking. Faster.”

The tramp began a singsong cry of, “La-a-a-dies. Let's have lu-u-u-nch. La-a-a-dies, let's have lu-u-u-nch.” I twisted to look. He appeared frazzled more than dangerous.

“Ignore him,” Mama said, urging me along with her hands when I turned.

A stone inside my shoe rubbed against my heel. I nearly twisted my ankle turning to see how fast he approached. I picked up my long skirt, wishing we had the reform dresses to wear right now.

“Leave us be or I'll shoot,” Mama said. I could tell by the direction of her voice that she'd stopped.
Does she have her Smith & Wesson out?

“Don't … don't …”

I heard the gunshot, smelled the powder, watched the man fall.

“You shot him,” I screamed. “Mama! You shot him!”

“I gave him fair warning.”

“Maybe he was hungry,” I said, running past her to him.

“Then he should have said so.”

“He said he wanted lunch.”

Mama joined me. He lay on his side, still. A light rain drizzled.

I leaned over to touch him. One eye came open. I jerked back.

“You … you shot me,” he said. “My leg.”

“A mere flesh wound,” Mama said, but she sounded relieved.

He moaned loudly. “Meant you no harm,” he said. “Haven't eaten in two days. My leg!”

“Are you armed?” Mama asked.

“No,” he said. I could see blood through one of the holes in his pants. “If I had a gun, I'd have traded it for chicken. Just wanted a little food. Thought you were tramps too.”

“Do we look like tramps?” Mama asked. She pulled on her jacket, straightened her shoulders. Actually, I thought we did, mud all over us, hats as flat as grinding stones. Mama didn't wait for his answer. “Come along, Clara. We'll bandage him up. He can't do any harm hobbling.”

His mouth dribbled hardtack Mama gave him. I tore up one of his shirts to use as a bandage. It was a flesh wound, but I was sure it hurt. “Don't you know it's dangerous for two women alone out here?”

“You can see we can handle ourselves,” I said. I hated defending my mother's actions.

At the river I found a stick that would work to help him hobble along to the next town. Having injured him, we felt obligated to take care of him, even though his wobbly ways delayed us. At the next train station, he said he'd wait and see if he couldn't get one of the other tramps who rode the rails to give him a lift. Mama left him an egg.

“I don't think we should be so hasty in the future,” I said as we walked away.

“What? Why not? He'll tell the other tramps that the two women
walkers aren't to be toyed with. He could have been trouble. You must do whatever is necessary to protect your family, Clara. This trip should prove that to you if nothing else.”

I knew my mother was strong, brave even. She'd sued the city of Spokane over an injury. I'd taken care of her and my brothers and sisters while she healed. But shooting the tramp wasn't brave; it was … impulsive, just like this trip. It had cost us precious time, caused the man pain, and we'd likely sleep under a willow, drenched in the rain, because of Mama's hasty action. One needed to think things through. That's what this trip would prove to me.

We stepped aside for trains rumbling along the tracks. I held my hand to my hat and turned my face away from the black smoke that billowed as engines chugged past. Passengers sped by us, blobs of color in the windows. Surprised looks washed over faces flashing by. A man in the caboose waved. Strangers, all of them. Yet we were dependent on strangers to see us through. That's what Mama said. We couldn't live on hardtack and eggs forever. Everyone we'd encounter would be a stranger. Perhaps even my mother.

J
UNE 1896

S
oggy sunflowers hung their heads over a fence outside of Boise City. Rain poured down as it had all but five days since we'd left. It's good when God gives us great beginnings, because soon after come the downpours of discouragement. One needs the memory of good starts to carry on, and we'd had that one good, dry day. Since then, we'd crossed flooded streams, stood beneath leaky storefront porches in cowboy towns like Pendleton, hoping the rains would ease. Dirt paths became streams and I fell more than once, mud caking on my skirt and building up on the soles of my shoes. “At least we don't lack for wash water,” Mama said, holding her hands out to the rainy heavens.

We'd come only four hundred fifty miles in six weeks of walking. It was taking us too long. The leather bags weighted us. The mud, rain, snow in the Blue Mountains, tramps, and need to earn our meals by
washing dishes or laundry had all slowed us. So much for my mother's planning. The only good thing so far was the ample time I had to daydream about Forest.

Boise City ended at a railroad stub line, and trains backed into the city, then headed out and south, so following the rails meant we'd have to backtrack part of this road. But we had to go into the town, find work, and get new shoes, carpetbags to replace the leather. Boise was our first capital city, so we needed a governor's signature too.

Calf-high water covered the only road, giving us no choice but to slosh our way through it. Wet leather chafed my ankles. We'd sold all but one of the portrait pictures, so they needed replacing too. Our buyers had been startled ranchers out with their cattle or sheep, a few housewives who thought our adventure grand. A lot more looked at us with disgust and sent us on our way. I looked at our mud-laden skirts and snorted. “A fine picture we make.”

“Hopefully the
Union
article preceded us,” Mama said. “We'll need new shoes here. I should have realized how badly the cinder packing the ties would cut the leather soles.”

“Maybe a few other things we should have thought about too,” I snarled. My ankle ached from walking awkwardly outside the tracks on the rough and uneven ground. It made walking slow and messy. “We're far from averaging twenty-nine miles a day.”

“Clara, look on the bright side. A woman gave us dried cherries. Such a luxury. We had a day we made forty miles. Or more.”

“And I cut my foot on those empty bottles tossed out.”

“You have to pick up your feet, that's all.”

No sympathy came from her. It was all work. Do. Persist.

Conductors on the trains emptied their wash water and human refuse right onto the tracks, and if we weren't careful, we stepped in it,
our long skirts picking up the mess as well as the stench. My mother, always so clean and tidy.
Papa should see her now
, I thought. Mrs. Stapleton would have fainted.

“Pretty flowers,” Mama said.

“If they weren't so wet.”

“The Norwegian Feminist Society recently adopted the sunflower as their special flower because it follows the sun, claims light and air, and reaches for more.”

I rolled my eyes. “That can't be so.”

“It is. I learned of it before we left. My suffragette friends certainly know that's what a sunflower stands for.”

“So anytime we see a sunflower we can stop and perhaps be invited in by a kindred spirit to spend the night? In a bed perhaps? That would be pleasant.”

“Sarcasm does not become you,” Mama said. “I'm not saying that sunflowers are so … significant. Even though their faces are wet and gray, they turn toward the west, as though they know the sun will set there and dry them out.”

“What sun?” I said.

My mother sighed. “Let's stop first at the statehouse. We'll find the governor and get his signature. We'll take that to the newspaper, and that'll help us find work.”

“And what if he won't sign it?” I said. “Look at us.”

“Don't put trouble in your wheelbarrow. It's heavy enough as it is.”

“My feet hurt. I'm cold and tired and wet. I'd like to rest tonight in a real bed.”

“You've been irritable all day. Are you starting your monthlies?”

“Mother. Please.”

“Nothing wrong with a woman discussing her feminine needs. I
know you have rags with you because I put them in your grip, but I hope you'll be able to work.”

“I'll do what I must. Right, Mother?” I didn't like myself as a grumpy woman, but I wasn't having any luck letting go of blaming my mother for how miserable I felt.

Once in Boise City, I noticed streetcar tracks. “Can we ride to the capitol?”

“No. The streetcars are not free, so we can't take them. We have to walk. Those are the conditions. They may have spies watching to see that we don't cheat.”

“No one is going to come all this way to watch us. And certainly not in the middle of a flood.”

“The cars won't run with the high water, and if a reporter saw us riding even on the back of a farmer's wagon, the contract could be invalidated.”

“Fandem!”
I said.

“Don't bring up the devil, Clara. His ears are too good, and if you invite him, who knows what can happen?”

“I'm so … tired, Mama.” I couldn't think of a deeper, bigger, more expansive word than
tired
. I was an elephant weighted with stones. My fingers ached; my hair hurt. I could barely feel my feet.

“Oh, look. There's the capitol. We've walked down the right street. Isn't that fortunate?”

I rolled my eyes at her enthusiasm.

Once inside the building, our feet clicked on the marble floors, and Mama asked directions to the ladies' powder room. I sank onto a settee with a high wooden back and a stuffed brocade pillow seat. I ran my hands over the fine fabric. “If I weren't so exhausted, I might find this pleasant,” I said.

“Well, that's an improvement in your disposition.”

Mama washed her face in the fresh water pitcher and used the gold-framed mirror to set her hat straight and brush mud from her skirt and light jacket. The stains beneath her arms barely showed on the damp wool. “Come along,” she said. “I'll brush your skirt off in back and you brush mine. Get the hem good.”

“I can't stand up,” I said.

“Yes, you can.”

I brushed off my own skirt, and then we left the room and climbed up to the second floor. “He was a senator first,” Mama said. “I think he and the mayor are friends.”