Chapter 34: Greenwood Cutoff

 

July 13, 1847. Crossed South Pass, now in Oregon Territory, halfway through our grand adventure.

 

The men passed a bottle of whiskey around as the company celebrated. Mac wondered where the spirits had come from. Whenever the fiddles and banjos came out, whiskey did as well. He drank his share.

The next morning Mac thought about the distance still to travel. Hard as it was to imagine in the heat of summer, they would not reach Oregon City until near winter.

That night they camped beside Dry Sandy Creek. The men dug in the creek bed to eke out enough water for people and animals. The water was so alkaline Mac could smell it from their campsite.

“Ice Slough seems far behind us now,” Jenny said as she fixed supper.

Mac nodded. “Last night I was eager for the rest of the journey. Today it feels like a long grind. And for what? Adventure?”

Maybe he should have stayed in Boston. He could have done quite well in his brother’s law practice, as his father expected him to do. But staying would have felt like acquiescing in how his parents—and he—had treated Bridget. He had blamed them—and himself—and needed to escape.

And Jenny would be in Arrow Rock, still threatened by her stepfather and the Johnsons. Rescuing Jenny had provided partial absolution for his guilt over Bridget.

Pershing gathered the men and said, “We have a decision to make. We can go south to Fort Bridger, along the Sandy and Green Rivers. Or cut across the desert, like the Greenwood party did. Desert route saves a week’s travel, but there’s no water for forty miles, from the Little Sandy to the Green. And not much forage.”

“We can make forty miles,” Abercrombie said.

“My team’s wore out,” Mercer objected. “I’d rather stay with the rivers. If I lose another ox, I’ll be down to two yoke.”

“I’m plumb near out of flour,” Hewitt said. “If we don’t stop at Bridger, where’s the next place for provisions?”

“Fort Hall,” Pershing said. “Two weeks past the Green.”

Mac scratched his jaw. “We can share food,” he said. “I’m worried about the teams. How many sick oxen and mules do we have?”

Others chimed in, arguing over which route to take, until Abercrombie announced. “I’m taking the cutoff.”

Pershing’s face reddened. Mac put a hand on the captain’s arm. “We’ll vote,” Mac said, eyeing Abercrombie. “But I’m staying with Captain Pershing.”

“I don’t mind the desert,” the captain said. “But y’all need to know what you’re in for.”

“Let’s vote,” Doc said.

The majority voted for the cutoff. A few men grumbled about their teams. “We’ll stick together,” Pershing said. “Won’t leave anyone behind.”

“When do we start?” Abercrombie asked.

“We’ll travel to the Big Sandy tomorrow. It’s a short day,” Pershing said.

“Why can’t we go farther?”

Pershing ignored Abercrombie. “We’ll lay by the next day, then head out at night. Travel all night and through the day until we reach the Green. So rest your teams good at the Sandy. Horses, too.”

Back at their wagon, Mac told Jenny the plan.

“More desert!” she said. “We’ve been parched for weeks.”

“We’ll take it easy until the long haul Thursday night.”

 

July 14, 1847. We have decided on Greenwood Cutoff through the desert. This land fights us at every step.

The travelers arrived at the Big Sandy at noon Wednesday. They let their animals drink and forage, though water and grass were sparse.

“It’s all they’ll get till we reach the Green,” Pershing warned. “Don’t tax ’em today or tomorrow.”

Abercrombie said, “Me’n my sons are going hunting. Our horses are fit. Anyone else coming?”

No one else wanted to go.

The Abercrombies were gone all afternoon. Esther came to sit with Jenny. Mac heard her say, “Daniel didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want his pa to be mad.”

“I hope they don’t get too tired,” Jenny said.

The Abercrombie men returned shortly before supper, an antelope slung across each saddle. “We’ll eat well tonight,” Samuel boasted to Pershing.

“Hope you’re not eating your horse Thursday night when its legs give out,” Pershing muttered.

 

July 15, 1847. Abercrombie defied Pershing and went hunting. I for one was happy to rest. A hard night tomorrow.

On Thursday everyone stayed in camp. They filled every container they had with water, and the women baked biscuits and fried meat.

“We won’t stop from dusk tonight until we reach the Green,” Pershing said. “Straight shot west. Follow the wagon ruts baked in the ground.”

They broke camp when the sun dipped in the west. Sagebrush undulated in the heat waves rising from the dirt.

Jenny rode Poulette, while Mac rode Valiente and guided the oxen. “Ride until you and Poulette are worn out,” he told her. “It’ll save the team not to carry you in the wagon.”

“Riding is pleasant,” she said. “The evening air is fresher than the heat of the wagon.”

They marched forward, hour after hour. Dark descended and the brilliant stars appeared, too many to count in the vast sky. Mac plodded on Valiente, step after step.

Around midnight he noticed Jenny swaying in her saddle. He helped her off Poulette and into the wagon and tied the mare behind. They trudged on.

Before dawn Mac heard a shout and rode ahead.

“Goddamn ox fell,” Mercer said. “Won’t get up.”

“Get it out of its yoke,” Pershing said. “We can’t stop.”

Mercer unhitched the fallen ox and its yokemate and moved his wagon out of line. Mac and Pershing worked with Mercer to get the ox to stand. It heaved to its feet, fell down, moaned, and died.

“Tie its mate to your wagon,” Pershing said. “We’re moving on.”

Mercer led the surviving ox forward, looking back once. “Sure wish I could have butchered it,” he said. “Hate to lose the meat.”

Abercrombie seemed none the worse after his hunting escapade. His horse ambled along as if the large man were no burden. Daniel’s horse stumbled once or twice, but all the mounts were weary when the sun rose behind them.

On and on they went, dry land surrounding them like a desolate sea. When the sun had risen fully, Jenny handed Mac a biscuit with a slice of meat tucked inside. He ate as he rode.

She mounted Poulette again. “Too hot in the wagon.”

Poulette walked beside Valiente, the mare’s short legs struggling to keep up with the stallion. But the Indian pony’s endurance lasted longer than Jenny’s. Toward noon she gave up riding. “My back’s too stiff to keep my balance,” she said and returned to the wagon.

In midafternoon Poulette broke her tether to the wagon and stampeded ahead. It was all Mac could do to keep Valiente from racing after her.

Just then, Zeke hallooed the company. “Green River straight ahead!”

The oxen bawled and started to run, pulling the wagon faster. From his prancing mount’s back, Mac cracked a whip over the team, but they didn’t slow. Inside the careening wagon, Jenny screamed.

“Hold on, Jenny,” he yelled. “They’ll stop at the river.”

The animals milled into the water, the ones behind pushing the first arrivals deeper. Many of the emigrants ran into the river also, splashing and laughing.