Chapter 74: Willow Creek

 

September 21, 1847. Crossed the Umatilla, small compared to the royal Columbia. Jenny worries about rafting the river, but I cannot let her desires determine what we do.

 

Mac sat beside the campfire watching the sun drop. High, thin clouds turned pink and orange, then gray, before fading into the dark sky. He couldn’t tell Jenny they would take Barlow Road. Not unless the company agreed. His youth and inexperience were disadvantages enough as he tried to lead the group. He’d be happy to let someone else captain, but no one else stepped forward, not since Abercrombie left. The men seemed to trust him to hold them together. He had to honor their trust.

“You’re thinking deep,” Zeke said, squatting beside Mac.

Mac grunted, not wanting to discuss his dilemma with Zeke.

Zeke rolled a cigarette, struck a match on a rock, and smoked lazily, giving every indication he might sit there all night.

“I don’t know whether to take Barlow Road or the rafts,” Mac said.

“Don’t have to decide yet, do we?”

Mac sighed. “Jenny doesn’t want to float the river.”

“Ah.” Zeke took another drag on his cigarette.

They sat in silence for several minutes, Zeke smoking, Mac staring at the stars. “I don’t want her to worry,” Mac said.

Zeke puffed again, without a word.

“But I can’t let her tell me what to do,” Mac argued, to himself as much as Zeke. “I have to decide what’s best for the company.”

Zeke stubbed out his cigarette. “Miz Jenny’s a mighty fine woman,” he said as he stood. “I’ve said it before—you’re a lucky man.” He walked off, leaving Mac to gaze at the sky.

The next morning was cool but bright, promising another warm afternoon. Mac led the travelers across a bend in the river. When the trail hit the Columbia again around midday, they took their noon halt, then continued along the river’s shore.

Jenny didn’t talk to him again about the road. Mac saw her frown at the river several times, but she didn’t speak to him.

Mac tried not to think about their conversation the night before. He focused on the wagons and the route, riding Valiente back and forth along the wagons. In midafternoon they reached Willow Creek, which flowed through a small ravine with grass in the bottom for the animals.

“We’ll stop here,” Mac said. He was glad Abercrombie wasn’t there to argue. They could have traveled farther, but Mac wasn’t rushing to The Dalles. Once there, he’d have to make a decision. He hoped the choice would be clear.

 

September 22, 1847. Camped on Willow Creek, named for the trees on its banks. Good grass.

At dawn Zeke and Joel came to see Mac. “Road’s purty rough on the other side of the ravine,” Zeke said. “Might need to go up the creek a ways. And we don’t know where to cross the John Day River.”

“How far is it?” Mac asked.

Joel shrugged. “We ain’t ridden ahead that far.”

“Best lay by here for a day,” Zeke said. “Joel and me’ll scout. Come back tonight with the route.”

“All right.” Mac nodded. “We’ll rest today.”

Some men grumbled. “We’re so close,” Dempsey said. “I’m itching to claim my land.”

Mac saw smiles on the women’s faces. Willow Creek was a peaceful spot, and they relished a day without travel.

Mac led a small hunting party. They shot enough ducks for every wagon to get enough. “Zeke and Joel back yet?” Mac asked Jenny as he swung down from the saddle in late afternoon.

“No.”

The women plucked and roasted the birds. The sun was setting by the time the scouts returned.

“What did you find?” Mac asked.

Zeke dismounted, then shook his head. “Road’s rough everywhere we looked. It’s a steep climb out of this canyon here, then rocks and sand along the river. Or upstream, then out of the canyon, with more rocks and sand on the plateau.”

“What about the John Day?” Mac asked.

“Didn’t get that far,” Joel said.

Franklin Pershing joined them. “Can we make it along the Columbia?”

“There’s room,” Zeke said. “But it’s tight.”

Pershing shrugged. “Why go south then? Frémont made it on the river.”

“We’ll be heading straight into the wind,” Joel said. “Sand flying everywhere. Our horses ’bout balked on us because of the grit.” He chuckled. “They sure were glad when we started back.”

“We’ll stay on the Columbia,” Mac declared.

A strong, gusty wind howled through the river gorge Friday morning. After breakfast the oxen and mules strained to pull the wagons out of the ravine. When they headed downriver, the wagon wheels slogged in heavy sand. In some places the cliffs dropped straight to the water, and the teams had to pull the wagons up the bluffs to the bleak plateau above the Columbia.

The wind blew so hard the women and children bent double as they walked. Mac saddled Poulette and led her to Jenny. “Ride the mare,” he said. “No reason to tire yourself out.”

“William—”

“Tie him in a sling. You shouldn’t walk, and it’s hard on the oxen if you’re in the wagon.”

“That’s why I’m walking—”

“That’s why you have Poulette.” Mac took William, helped Jenny into the saddle, and handed the baby to her. “Go on. I need to stay with the wagons.” He slapped Poulette on the rump, and the mare trotted off.

Even with Jenny on Poulette, Mac worried. The trail was so steep and narrow wagons could barely pass. Poulette and Valiente were sure-footed, but even Mac didn’t like looking at the sheer drop to the river below.

They camped that night on another small stream beneath the craggy buttes. The grass was adequate, but not as plentiful as at Willow Creek.

Jenny approached Mac after supper. “About the rafts—”

“I told you, Jenny. I can’t decide until we get to The Dalles.”

“I simply wanted to tell you—”

Mac’s impatience got the best of him. “I know how you feel—”

“You don’t. You don’t know how I feel. You won’t even listen.”

“We’ll talk about it at The Dalles.”

He left and walked to the Pershing wagons. Esther and Daniel sat by the campfire with Jonah. Esther leaned back on Daniel, who sat behind her with his arms around both Esther and her baby brother.

“Where are Zeke and Joel?” Mac asked.

Daniel waved toward the river. “Took the young’uns for a walk.”

“Captain Pershing?”

“In the wagon,” Esther said.

“Sleeping?”

Esther shrugged.

Mac poked his head in the back of the wagon. Franklin Pershing snored. Mac sniffed. No scent of alcohol.

“Think I’ll go find Zeke,” he said.

Mac walked through the circle of wagons, nodding at families as he passed. It was a quiet evening, a brilliant sunset over the river. Why was he so uneasy? Must be his role as captain, he thought. The others could rest, but he couldn’t. Jenny nagging him about the rafts didn’t help. Just when he thought they were getting along, she pushed at him.

And yet, he owed her his life.

At the river’s edge, Zeke and Joel skipped rocks into the vast Columbia with the younger Pershings. They all laughed and splashed along the shore. Rachel had grown on this trip—as tall now as Jenny, though that wasn’t saying much.

Mac started to call out to Zeke. But what did they really need to talk to about? It could all wait until morning. He turned and went back to camp. Jenny and William were already in the wagon. He heard the baby grunting and Jenny humming.

Mac sat by the fire and took out his journal:

 

September 24, 1847. Wind in our faces all day, blowing sand that stifles the breath. We hope to reach the John Day tomorrow.