Chapter 66: Powder River to Grande Ronde

 

What did Jenny expect? Mac asked himself as he went to find the platoon leaders. He’d left the Bakers sooner than he should have to make sure she was all right. And all she did was complain he made her unhappy. Well, he wouldn’t bother her again tonight.

Mac spoke tersely as he asked Pershing about the Blue Mountains.

“Need to come at ’em gradual,” Pershing said. Frémont’s map lay on a crate in the wagon circle, and men crowded around. “Stay on the east side of the valley. Head for that notch.” Pershing gestured toward the mountains at the north end of the Powder River basin. “From there we head to Grande Ronde.”

“How far?” Mac asked.

Pershing shrugged. “Two days maybe.”

“That’s not so bad,” someone said.

“That ain’t the worst of the Blues.” Pershing squinted at the mountains. “Past Grande Ronde we got several days of steep, hellacious country. Worse’n the Rockies.”

“God damn it, Pershing,” Abercrombie sneered. “Ain’t no wonder women are scared to death, if that’s what you tell ’em.”

Pershing raised an eyebrow. “Only telling facts. You don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Stop it,” Mac said. “We need to know what’s ahead.”

“Fancy maps don’t matter. We got to plow ahead,” Abercrombie said.

Dempsey scratched his head. “Teams are plum worn out. Don’t know if my oxen can take more mountains. Maybe we oughta rest a few days. Plenty of grass here.”

“Should we go on?” Mac asked the group. “Or lay by and wait for Baker?”

The men argued, but couldn’t agree. Mac would have to decide. This wouldn’t be a bad place for Jenny to have the baby, though only God knew when it would come. They couldn’t wait long. “Any place else to rest farther on?” he asked Pershing.

“Grande Ronde. Then nothing till past the Blues.”

“We’ll keep going,” Mac declared. He hoped the baby would hold off at least the two days to Grande Ronde.

“We’ll have to decide about Walla Walla,” Pershing said.

“What about it?” Mac asked.

“Do we go to the fort or not? And Whitman’s place is near there, too.”

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” Mac said, weary of planning beyond what he had to.

He returned to his wagon. Jenny slept inside, with Hatty and Otis curled up underneath.

Mac took his bedroll to the fire. By the flickering light, he wrote:

 

September 6, 1847. Rejoined the company on the Powder, leaving the Bakers with Tanner and Zeke. Tomorrow we head north.

In the morning the company trundled up the wide, grassy valley. Mac ordered families with plenty of oxen or mules to let half their animals graze through the day. “Don’t know when we’ll see more good feed,” he said.

The mountains to the west were covered in pine and other evergreens, a welcome sight after weeks of sage and scrub. After seeing signs of deer in the valley, Mac sent Abercrombie and other men hunting.

“Bring back as much as you can shoot and carry,” Mac said. “We’re all low on food.”

In late morning a small band of Indians riding large spotted horses approached the wagons.

“Nez Perce,” Pershing told Mac. “Probably camped in a summer lodge nearby.”

The Indians had dried meat and vegetables to trade. Mac called the noon halt early. He exchanged fish hooks for the Indians’ camas roots, potatoes, dried salmon, and red chokecherries. Jenny smiled when he took her the food. Apparently, she was over her hurt feelings.

He grinned. “Think you can make something to eat from these?”

“Between Hatty and me, we’ll manage.”

The Indians told Mac a party from Dr. Whitman’s mission was waiting in Grande Ronde. “Doctor want wagons come Waiilatpu,” one Indian said. “Trade. Stay winter.”

“Stay the winter?” Mac was surprised.

Pershing nodded. “Some folks hole up with Whitman for the winter. Go to Oregon City in early spring to claim land and start farming.”

“Waiilatpu—is that Whitman’s place?” Mac asked.

Pershing nodded.

“Should we winter there?”

Pershing shrugged. “If we get that close, I’d rather stake my claim this fall.”

After the long halt at noon, the travelers only reached the north end of the Powder valley that afternoon. “We’ll camp here,” Mac said.

Abercrombie’s hunting party found them in early evening. The hunters all had meat slung across their saddlebags.

“Why’d you stop so soon?” Abercrombie asked before he even dismounted.

“Spent time trading with Indians,” Mac said.

Abercrombie spat on the ground. “Why’d you trade when we was out hunting?”

“They had vegetables and fish as well as meat.” Mac squinted at Abercrombie, sick of the man’s pugnaciousness. “No need to question everything.”

“Just asking.”

The emigrants unloaded the carcasses and butchered the meat. The work took time, but the prospect of heading into the mountains with fresh food lifted everyone’s spirits. Some women sang as they worked.

“Wish Clarence was here,” Mac heard Hatty Tanner sigh to Jenny. He wondered where the Baker wagon was. Had they made it into the Powder valley yet? But the missing wagons did not appear by dark.

Mac wrote that night:

 

September 7, 1847. Traded with Nez Perce. No sign of Baker’s wagon.

In the morning Mac rose before the sun. He asked Joel and Daniel to scout. “Find a place for the noon halt. Then one of you ride back to guide us, the other ride on to find a night camp.”

“Should someone go back for the Bakers?” Joel asked.

Mac thought a moment. “Would your father go?” he asked Daniel.

Daniel grinned. “Keep him out of trouble?”

Mac shrugged, but grinned back.

“Ask him,” Daniel said.

Mac sought out Samuel Abercrombie. “Need someone who isn’t afraid of Indians to ride back and guide the Bakers.”

Abercrombie puffed out his chest. “No reason to fear a few savages.”

“If you see any Indians, don’t start anything. The Nez Perce are harmless traders.” Mac wondered whether it was a good idea to send Abercrombie by himself. “Want someone to ride with you?”

“What’s Daniel doing?”

“Scouting with Joel.”

“Send someone else. I’ll take Daniel.”

Mac didn’t want to get between Daniel and his father. He ordered Hewitt to scout.

Through the morning Mac rode ahead of the wagons, watching for the piled stones Joel and Hewitt left to mark the route. Hatty stayed with Jenny, which put Mac’s mind at ease.

As the trail climbed, the hills were at first as infertile as those around the Burnt River. Soon, however, pine trees studded the tops of the cliffs above the trail. The travelers picked their way up the mountain range, following the scouts’ marks.

Hewitt met the wagons in late morning. “Route widens out in another two miles,” he said. “Marked the noon stop there. Joel’s ridden on ahead.”

Mac nodded. “You want to scout this afternoon, or should I send Dempsey?”

“I’ll do it. Let me get a meal with my missus, then I’ll ride on.”

The wagons lumbered up the hills to the noon camp. The trail widened, as Hewitt had said, but barely. They ate and rested between rock walls that towered four hundred feet on either side of them, then resumed the trek.

The trail narrowed again on the descent in the afternoon. Soon they were in a canyon hardly wide enough for a single file of wagons. Cliffs now rose one thousand feet above the gorge where they traveled. Pine trees dotted crevices in the rock faces wherever their roots could cling.

The sun dipped behind the western bluffs in midafternoon, though the sky overhead remained bright blue. After another hour of travel, the canyon opened out. The steep cliffs halted abruptly, and a wide, grassy basin spread before them.

Mac rode Valiente back to his wagon to check on Jenny.

“What a beautiful valley!” she exclaimed. “Even nicer than the Powder.”

“Grande Ronde,” Pershing said, halting his wagon next to Mac.

A horse and rider galloped toward them. “Ho!” Joel Pershing cried, reining his mount to a stop. “Party from Waiilatpu is here. Camped a mile ahead. Three Indians and a white man. They’ll guide us to Whitman’s.”

“Should we go?” Mac asked Pershing.

“You’re captain,” Pershing said. “When I was here in forty-two, heard tell Whitman had scratched a fine place out of the wilderness. Wouldn’t mind seeing it. But it’s out of our way, and we got fresh food. And don’t expect ’em to give you any charity in their trades.”

“Let’s see what they have to say.” Mac waved his hat, and the wagons rolled into the valley.

As they finished making camp, Samuel and Daniel Abercrombie returned.

“Where are the Bakers?” Mac asked.

“Past the summit,” Abercrombie said. “Thought you’d want to know, so we come on ahead.”

Mac looked at the sky. “It’ll be dark by the time they get here.”

“Most likely.”

Mac sighed. “I’ll send a couple men out to guide them in.”

“Zeke and Tanner are there.”

“It didn’t occur to you to let those two come back first? They’ve been away from their families for days.”

“Zeke’s single. And it’s just Tanner.”

Mac turned away, not wanting to confront Abercrombie’s prejudice. Over his shoulder he said, “Meeting tonight. Agents from Waiilatpu.”

Abercrombie followed him. “What do they want?”

“Want us to detour to their mission.”

“Another goddamn delay? We got provisions now.”

“We’ll hear them out. Then vote.” Mac kept walking. He sent Hewitt and Daniel to guide the Baker wagon in.

Night had fallen when the Baker wagon arrived, the new moon providing little light to aid the stars.

“Grab a bite,” Mac said to the arrivals, clapping Zeke on the back. “Then join us. Talking to men from Whitman’s place in Waiilatpu.”

The men listened to Marcus Whitman’s representatives extol the wonders of their mission on the banks of the Walla Walla River. “Good farm. Blacksmith shop. Fresh oxen to trade for your worn teams. Plenty of space for folks to winter,” the white man said.

One of the Nez Perce spoke English. “We take you. Not far. Then you stay, or make easy trip to Columbia and Oregon City.”

“We need to talk among ourselves,” Mac said, and the men from Waiilatpu retreated.

“What do you think?” Mac asked his group.

“No more delays,” Samuel Abercrombie said. “Head straight for Oregon City.”

“I’d like to see the mission,” Doc Tuller said.

“Teams are spent,” Hewitt said. “I got one ox with hooves split to the quick. Another with neck sores from the yoke.”

“Prices at Whitman’s won’t be cheap,” Pershing warned. “But it’s a purty place for anyone who wants to wait till spring to finish the journey.”

“Maybe the widows might want to keep their families at the mission,” Dempsey said. “We been carrying ’em a long time—Purcell family since Kansas. Sounds like Waiilatpu’s civilized, despite its heathen name.”

Mac was torn. He wanted this journey to be over, his quest for adventure long gone. But he wanted Jenny safe. Perhaps she and her baby could stay at Waiilatpu—Mrs. Whitman could care for her.

The discussion continued until Abercrombie announced, “I ain’t going to Waiilatpu. And that’s final.”

“Need to vote, Abercrombie,” Doc said.

“Take your goddamn vote. I ain’t going.”

“Show of hands,” Mac said, waving his hat. “Who wants to go to Waiilatpu?”

Two-thirds of the men raised their hands.

“Opposed?” Mac asked, but the outcome was clear. He made a show of counting hands opposed, then said, “Waiilatpu it is.”

He beckoned the Whitman agents back. “We’ll go with you,” he said, though they had probably overheard the company’s argument.

“Route’s the same till after you’re through the Blues,” the white man told them. “You can change your mind till then.”

Why hadn’t the guides told them that before Abercrombie declared himself? Mac wondered.