Chapter 28: At Independence Rock
July 1, 1847. At Independence Rock. From the top I could see for miles.
Mac sat writing beside the dwindling campfire. He squinted in the poor light, but he wasn’t ready to sleep. The splendid sights he’d seen swirled in his brain—the Sweetwater River stretching ahead until it became a tiny ribbon on the horizon, the narrow gap of Devil’s Gate carved through the ages, and snowcapped mountains surrounding all sides of their route. He wanted to show Jenny these wonders, but she had snapped at him earlier. He had no idea what had set her off.
Pershing ambled over and sat beside Mac, then pulled a glowing twig from the fire and lit his pipe. “Thinking of staying here through the Fourth,” the captain said. “You mind a few days’ rest?”
“No. It’d be good for the teams.”
“There’s a rendezvous here on the Fourth,” Pershing said. “Party of trappers from Oregon due in. Be a good chance to learn ’bout conditions in the West.”
“Sounds fine.” Mac frowned at the captain. “Why are you telling me now?”
“Abercrombie’s going to raise a stink. He’ll argue to leave sooner.”
“He’ll want to hunt tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Pershing said. “Then he’ll be ready to move on.”
“Surely we should hear what the trappers have to say.”
Pershing nodded. “That’s my thinking.”
“I’ll back you up,” Mac said.
Mac went with the hunting party, leaving camp shortly after dawn. Abercrombie boasted he would shoot all his wagon could carry by noon. Through the morning they found sage hens and jackrabbits, but no larger game.
“Too damn many wagons and people,” Abercrombie fumed. “Need to get away on our own to find the herds.”
Toward midday the men came upon several sheep with large curling horns nestled in the hills near Devil’s Gate. The sheep stared at the men without moving. “Bighorns,” Pershing said. “Ain’t seen ’em this far east before.”
“Fire!” Abercrombie yelled. Shots sounded. Five of the strange beasts dropped.
Mac and two others rode back to camp to get a wagon to carry the meat. When he arrived, Jenny knelt beside a scrub board and a bucket, her face pale. “What are you doing?” Mac asked.
She frowned. “Washing.” She pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face with a wet hand.
“Don’t you want to get out of camp?”
“Everything’s filthy from the dust.”
“How much longer will the laundry take?”
She shrugged. “Half an hour. Still need to rinse and hang it up.”
“I’ll be back.”
Mac strode over to the wagon being readied to haul the meat back to camp. “Can you do without me?” he asked. When the other men nodded, he returned to Jenny.
“We’re climbing the rock,” he told her.
“Mac, I don’t—”
“Come on, Jenny, you need a pleasant day. Even a few hours.” He lifted her by the elbow. She grabbed her sunbonnet as he led her toward the granite hill.
Mac grinned as he started to hike up the narrow path. It was a wonderful day, and he was glad to share a piece of it with Jenny. He turned to her. She wasn’t following. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s too steep,” she said, holding one arm under her belly.
“I’ll help.” Mac slid back down to Jenny and held her hand while she clambered over a boulder. They inched their way upward. Soon she returned his smiles and held out her hand for assistance over the larger stones.
The wind whipped Jenny’s skirt around her legs, and Mac heard her puffing when they reached the top. But she had breath enough to gasp, “You can see forever!”
He pointed out Devil’s Gate. “That’s where we found sheep today. And see”—his boot tapped a bare spot on the rock—“here’s where I aim to paint our names.”
“I don’t need my name painted, Mac.”
“Don’t you want to leave a record you were here?”
“I don’t know what name to write.”
Was that why she was mad? “Jenny. That’s all.”
She shook her head. “Do what you want.”
When they arrived back in camp, Esther ran over to Jenny. “Where you been? There’s a preacher here. I’m getting married tomorrow!” And Esther pulled Jenny over to the Pershing wagons.
The hunters didn’t return to camp until after supper. Mac brought his share of the spoils to Jenny. “Fresh mutton tomorrow.”
“That’s nice.” She hadn’t said much since she returned from the Pershing campsite.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She busied herself packing away the mutton.
Mac watched her. “So Esther and Daniel are getting married tomorrow,” he said to make conversation.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“What’s her mother say?”
Jenny shrugged. “Now that it’s decided, she thinks it was her idea.”
“How do the Abercrombies feel?”
“Haven’t heard.”
“I thought you’d be happy for Esther and Daniel.”
“I am.” Jenny walked to the wagon. “Think I’ll turn in now.”
“I enjoyed the afternoon with you,” Mac called after her.
She turned to him and smiled. “I did, too.”
Grinning, Mac went looking for Pershing and found the captain sitting beside his wagons. “So you’re letting Esther marry tomorrow?” Mac said.
“Seems so,” Pershing said. “She and her ma are in a tizzy.”
“What’s Abercrombie say?”
“He’s spouting off about moving on. Do this wedding some other time. But Daniel and Mrs. Abercrombie are holding firm.”
“Mrs. Abercrombie doesn’t say much.”
“No, she don’t.” Pershing chuckled. “But when she does, seems like Samuel listens.”
Mac laughed. “Good to know someone can get through to him. So we’re staying through the Fourth?”
Pershing nodded. “Wedding tomorrow. Party tomorrow night, then another on the Fourth. Some goddamn fool brought a cannon here. Going to shoot it off at the top of the rock on the Fourth.”
“How will they haul it up there?”
“Damned if I know. Bunch of foolishness.”
Mac spent the next morning on top of Independence Rock using grease and gunpowder to paint “Caleb McDougall—July 3, 1847” in the spot he had chosen. He stepped back to admire his work, then added “and Jenny” underneath his name. The two words were inadequate to acknowledge all she had done on the journey, but they were all he could truthfully add.
Trappers from Oregon rode into camp around noon in a light rain. Mac joined men from several companies crowded under a tarp to hear their news.
“Still snow in the highest passes when we come through,” a bearded man in buckskin said.
“How’s the wagon trail?” Pershing asked.
Another trapper spat a stream of tobacco juice before answering. “Ain’t paid no attention. My mules ain’t wagons.”
The first trapper responded, “Better’n last fall. Every wagon headed west tramples down another bush or two.”
“So we can get our wagons through?” Abercrombie asked.
“Sure can,” the man in buckskin replied.
“What about Indians?” a man from another company asked.
“Mostly scrawny no-count tribes along the way. Fight with each other, but don’t bother us none.” The mountain man spat again.
“Any skirmishes between Indians and settlers this year?”
“Ain’t heard of none,” the lead trapper said. “But stay on the main trail.”
The discussion continued for an hour or more. When it was over, Mac went back to camp.
Jenny had put a lace collar on her loose blouse. “There’s a clean shirt for you in the wagon,” she said. “For the wedding.”
Mac grunted and sat to write in his journal:
July 3, 1847. Trappers from Oregon say the road is good. No trouble with Indians. But perhaps their mules were not as tempting a target as the wagon trains, with our horses and women and food.