Chapter 63: From Farewell Bend to the Burnt River

 

The confrontation with Abercrombie shook Jenny more than she admitted to Mac. She sat alone on the wagon seat, bumping up the hills, then down. They rounded a curve, and a green valley spread out ahead. They reached Birch Creek in late morning and followed its narrow basin east toward the Snake.

Mac checked on Jenny every hour or so. She was embarrassed that he took time to look after her, though it pleased her as well. Valiente’s coat was more streaked with sweat and dust each time Mac rode by.

“You all right?” he asked. “Not too hot?”

“No worse than it’s been.”

Once he caught her clutching her belly. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Jenny shook her head. “Baby kicked. I’m fine.”

“It hurts?” His voice cracked, and he looked alarmed. “I’ll get Doc.”

She chuckled. “Don’t bother. It happens all the time.”

“Can’t Doc stop it?”

“Not unless you want the baby to come right now.”

She laughed again at Mac’s startled expression. She fretted about the birth, and it was nice to know he worried, too.

They halted for the noon meal, then continued along Birch Creek. The air in the valley was stifling, but it was less dusty than in the hills. The trail narrowed as they approached the Snake.

On one of Mac’s rides by the wagon, Joel cantered over, back from scouting. “Snake’s around the next hill,” Joel said. “We follow it for a couple of miles, then reach a broad campsite this side of the river.”

“What next?” Mac asked.

“Up into the hills again. This is the last we see of the Snake. Farewell Bend, it’s called.”

Farewell Bend. Jenny sighed. Such a depressing name. Another segment of the trail left behind. Farther and farther from home.

That evening in camp, the mood was gay. The company they had met on the Bear River before Fort Hall caught up, and the two groups of settlers reunited like long-lost friends.

Jenny embraced the woman who had sold them the milk cow, and the woman exclaimed over how large Jenny had become.

“Your baby’s due any time, isn’t it?” the woman asked.

Jenny nodded.

Esther showed off how healthy Jonah was on his diet of rich cow’s milk. At six weeks, Jonah’s arms and legs were rolls of fat.

While Jenny cooked, Mr. Abercrombie stalked over and asked Mac, “How’d they catch up to us? Never seen ’em at the forts. They must be making more’n twenty miles a day.”

“Their travel isn’t my concern,” Mac replied. “My focus is on getting our company to Oregon.”

“We ain’t laying by tomorrow, are we?” Abercrombie demanded.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Mac said. “You think we should?” he added with a straight face.

“Hell, no! We’d best leave first thing. Get ahead of them others, so’s we get good grazing.” Abercrombie stormed off.

Jenny smiled at Mac. “You shouldn’t taunt him.”

Mac grinned. “What makes you think I was taunting?”

“You don’t have any intention of laying by tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that what I told him?”

Jenny giggled, glad that Mac took the time to joke with her. “I’d best be getting supper.”

After supper the two companies sang and danced until stars filled the sky. The half moon provided enough light to pick their way to the bonfire on the banks of the Snake.

The rushing rapids of the broad, swift river roared in the distance as Jenny sat by the fire. She sang along with the fiddles and accordion, “To the far, far off Pacific sea.” That song always made her melancholy. Now the Pacific was not so far—now it was home that was distant.

After the singing Jenny snuck away to her wagon and pulled out her journal:

 

Wednesday, September 1st—Farewell Bend. Tomorrow we leave the Snake. In a month we’ll be in Oregon. So far from home. I can barely remember the farm.

Mac woke Jenny early Thursday. “I thought the other company was laying by,” she said. “Why do we need to rush?”

“It’s not them,” Mac said. “I’d just as soon sit here until noon, if only to spite Abercrombie. But we should start out early, before the heat.”

The emigrants traveled away from the Snake and up another crest of bleak hills. It took most of the day to ascend and descend this ridge, but by late afternoon they reached the Burnt River.

“Why is it called the Burnt?” Jenny asked.

“Smell,” Mac said. “Fires burn here all the time, the grass is so dry.” He pointed at a distant hill. “See how black. Burned off earlier this year.”

A new worry. “Will we see fires?”

“Hope not,” Mac said. “Journey is hard enough without fighting fires.”

Jenny wrote before bed:

 

Thursday, September 2nd—Camped on the Burnt with signs of fire all around. I smell smoke, and wonder if it is only our campfire, or if the hills above will burst into flames.

Again on Friday they traversed steep hillsides, down and up gorges along the Burnt, rougher land than any since the windswept mountains where Mrs. Pershing had died. The river and springs in the hills provided plenty of water, but little grass for the animals. Most families had run low on everything but meat.

Mac sent out a hunting party, again placing Abercrombie in charge. Jenny wondered if Mr. Abercrombie realized Mac sent him to hunt merely to keep him away from the wagons. Regardless, his skill kept the emigrants alive.

Jenny’s stomach rebelled at venison almost as badly as in the early months of her pregnancy. They ate venison in some form—fried, stewed, dried—at every meal. If they were fortunate, they found camas roots and onions to go with it. Occasionally, they saw berries, but most of the berries were picked over by birds and bear and deer.

They traveled on a narrow strip of green land bordering the Burnt, sometimes only the width of a wagon or two. Mac ordered men to drive the loose animals ahead to graze, before the wagons and yoked teams trampled the grass. Those travelers with extra oxen or mules switched them out every two hours to let all the animals get a chance to forage.

The day passed slowly. They splashed through the shallow Burnt again and again. Jenny drove the wagon, though Mac spent much of the day by her side.

By late afternoon Jenny’s throat swelled in the parched air, and she wheezed to get a breath. She groaned at the aches running from neck to shoulders, down her back to her legs. They worsened with every jolt from the wheels. Each rock, each stump of brush punished her.

She swayed on the wagon seat. Mac vaulted from Valiente’s back onto the bench beside her as she pitched forward in a daze. “Get in the wagon,” he said.

With his assistance, she crawled into the back and laid down in the stifling heat. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“My fault,” Mac said. “I should have seen how tired you were.”

The motion was no less bruising under the wagon cover. She lay on top of wooden boxes and barrels, still panting to get breath.

“Zeke,” Mac called. “Find Mrs. Tuller. And grab Valiente before he wanders off.”

The wagon slowed to a stop, and Mrs. Tuller climbed in. “Here’s a wet rag for your face, dear. Let’s get you cooled off.”