Chapter 50: Along the Snake

 

The monotonous travel along the Snake bored Mac. The wagons creaked down a ravine and up the far side, then repeated the process at the next ravine. The parched land held little water and no relief from the August sun. He sweated beneath his hat, but kept his kerchief over his face to avoid swallowing dirt.

By midday Jenny leaned in her saddle, as if she might fall off Poulette. He took her a dipper of water. “Drink this.”

She gulped the whole dipperful without a word.

“Why don’t you rest in the wagon?”

Jenny shook her head. “It’s worse there. I can’t breathe for the heat.”

“Can you stay on the mare?”

“I’ll be all right.”

They reached a high ridge above the river. Pershing rode over to Mac in midafternoon. “We should stop here. Fall Creek, according to Frémont’s map.”

“We haven’t gone very far today,” Mac said.

“Next camp is Raft River. A couple of steep gulches between here and there. We’re too tired to make it by evening.”

Mac looked at Jenny slumped on Poulette. He nodded at Pershing. They pulled into a shallow gully near the Snake. There was grass for the animals, but the wagons could not circle in the tight space.

“Guards need stay mounted to corral stray animals,” Pershing ordered.

“Any chance of Indians?” Abercrombie asked.

“Always a chance,” Pershing replied. “But not many signs of ’em today.”

“Hope we don’t lose more horses to savages,” Abercrombie said.

“Stand guard yourself if you’re worried.” Captain Pershing stomped off.

Jenny went to bed right after supper. Mac wandered over to the Pershing wagons where the captain, Zeke, and Joel sat around their fire. “How much longer to Oregon City?” he asked.

“Two months, more or less,” Pershing replied.

“Jenny only has a few weeks until her time.” Mac didn’t know how to talk about the coming birth, but it troubled him. She didn’t seem well. “Where will we be in a month?”

“Maybe Grande Ronde.”

Mac had never heard of it. “What’s there?”

“Old fur trading stop. Nothing much now.”

“Can we rest there?” Mac asked.

“Nope. Still got the Blues, then the Columbia. Abercrombie won’t stand for delay. Don’t like the idea myself. Could snow in early September in these parts.”

“What are the Blues?” Zeke asked his father.

“Damnedest mountains yet.” Pershing shook his head. “Not as high as what we been through, but just as steep. No, we can’t stop.” The captain stood and went to his tent.

“Any sign he’s drinking?” Mac whispered to Zeke and Joel.

“Don’t think so,” Zeke said. “But he moves purty slow in the mornings.”

Mac returned to his campsite and wrote by the fire as the dusty sky flamed into a magnificent golden sunset.

 

August 9, 1847. The gullies and dry land we pass through are hard on man and beast alike. More mountains ahead, and then the Columbia—the mightiest river of them all, Pershing says.

The next morning the trail started along the Snake, but by noon the emigrants had turned away to avoid a steep ravine. Then they rolled on to the Raft River. They crossed and camped. The Raft valley was cramped, and the only place for the wagons to camp was right on the banks.

Mac joined other men fishing. He didn’t much like fishing, but the trout were plentiful.

“What’s your precious map say ’bout the Snake crossing?” Abercrombie asked.

“Frémont crossed about a week’s journey downstream from here,” Mac said. “Past the Shoshone fishing grounds.”

“Shoshone.” Abercrombie spat on the ground. “Damn savages.”

When Mac had a string of fish, he took it to Jenny. She pushed herself up from the crate where she sat in the shade of the wagon. “How will we ever eat so many fish?”

Mac shrugged. “We’ll be eating them three meals a day. Pershing says there are deer and moose around, but the trout are easy—they practically jump onto the hook.”

After supper Mac and Pershing rode upriver to greet another group of emigrants camped not far away.

“We’re headed for California,” their captain said. “Following the Raft to the Humboldt.”

“Why didn’t you turn south to California sooner?” Pershing asked.

“Didn’t decide until we reached Fort Hall. Man there convinced us to forget Oregon. Too hard to get through the Blues, he said. Scared my wife silly to hear about more mountains.”

“Mountains between here and California, too,” Pershing said.

“Hudson’s Bay man said Sierras ain’t as bad as the Blues. Gave us a map of a new route. Aim to try it.” The other captain showed Pershing a piece of brown paper with a pencil drawing.

“Good luck.” Pershing said. Later he shook his head at Mac as they returned to their camp. “Damn fools. Following a map scribbled on scrap paper.”

Mac settled himself beside his campfire and took out his journal. Jenny was already asleep.

 

August 10, 1847. A short day through ravines along the Snake. Good fishing. Other companies still splitting off for California. Will the Blues be as bad as men say?

A soft cry woke Mac in the middle of the night. “Jenny?” he called.

“I’m all right,” she said from the ground next to his bedroll under the wagon.

“What happened?” he asked, throwing off his blanket.

“I slipped getting out of the wagon.”

“Why were you getting out?”

“You know,” she said.

“No, I don’t. Why?”

“I needed to relieve myself,” she whispered.

“Oh.” Her cheeks would be pink if Mac could see her. “Do you need help?”

“No.”

“Let me walk with you.”

“Leave me be,” she said.

Mac lay awake waiting for Jenny to return. He usually slept deeply, weary after the day’s journey and his shifts at guard duty. He hadn’t heard Jenny up in the night before.

A soft squeak of the wagon wheel told Mac she was back. “Are you up most nights?” he asked.

“Yes. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t have you falling out of the wagon.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

But he did worry. How was he going to keep her safe until the baby came? And what then? Jenny’s predicament was becoming more and more real with every day. He was now realizing the commitment he had taken on when he brought her along.