The train moved slowly. Maggie and the others packed and repacked the wagons. They took turns performing chores that the men had done. They lingered at their nooning, and for two days they started late and stopped early, making no more than a few miles. “At this rate, it will take us a year to reach California,” William told them that night. “You must work together and work harder,” he said. “The pass ahead is worse than any we have seen so far. The descent is the most difficult between the Missouri and California.”
Maggie blew out her breath. She had heard of Granite Pass from an eastbound traveler and knew it would test them more than anything on the trip. “We shall make it,” she said, although she was not sure.
“We have no choice,” William told her. “But I wish we were better prepared. It will take everything we have to cross it.”
THE WAY UP Granite Pass was no worse than what they had encountered before, and Maggie thought travelers had exaggerated its difficulty. She reached the top and once again admired the beauty of the far hills. In front of her, however, was a valley of rocks and formations so bizarre that Caroline remarked, “It appears the world has been broken apart.” That broken world was a bizarre mass of limestone and sandstone and granite cones and tables and rock formations that made Maggie shiver because they brought to mind the strange shapes in City of Rocks. They shone red and green and yellow in the sunlight, like a devil’s garden. They would have to descend miles over steep and twisting trails, through a series of mountains and valleys until the pass and its descent were behind them.
William said they would wait until morning to begin. “God knows where we could spend the night in that trail of horrors,” he said.
Maggie wished that they had started earlier, because she lay awake much of the night worrying whether they were up to the task ahead of them.
The early morning was cold. Mary rose to place branches on the fire, and Maggie realized her friend had been awake and worried, too. “Do you think we can make it?” she whispered.
“We will try. It is that, my girl, or go back, and we have voted not to do so.”
“I am glad we are going ahead. There is nothing behind for either of us. You will get us through, Mary. We will all pray.”
“We shall get us through, you and I, and we will leave the praying to others. Myself, I will place my faith in the wagons, not God.”
“You are not a believer?”
“I am more inclined to believe the Lord comes to the aid of those who depend on themselves.”
“Then He is surely on your side.”
“Our side.”
The two warmed themselves by the fire, and before long, the others awoke. Dora got up awkwardly, her distended belly huge in the dawning light. She rubbed her injured arm as if it pained her. Maggie hoped the baby did not choose that day to be born.
THE RISING SUN sent long shadows across the east side of the pass, giving the rocks and defiles an even more devilish appearance. Maggie could see the remains of wagons and dead animals along the trail. From somewhere ahead of them, a dying ox bellowed. Maggie closed her eyes for a moment and said a prayer. She wished that Mary prayed, too, because God surely would pay attention to her. Maggie prayed that none of the women or their wagons or animals would be destroyed before they reached the bottom. She did not believe they could be so lucky, however. Like the other women, she hurried through breakfast, anxious to have the descent behind her.
William was nervous, too, and he yelled at the women to hitch the oxen. “No one is to ride inside the wagons. It is too dangerous,” he ordered. “Joseph and I will be needed for the ropes, so you women will have to drive the wagons. If no one volunteers, we will cast lots.”
“I will drive,” Mary offered.
“And I,” Maggie said.
Others volunteered, but the train still lacked one driver, so the women drew from blades of grass to see who would guide the oxen hitched to the final wagon. Dora had the shortest blade. She might have pleaded her condition, but she would not and started for the last wagon. Sadie exchanged a look with Bessie, then spoke up. “Let me go instead of her.”
“No, the responsibility is mine,” Dora said.
Sadie touched her arm. “Big with the baby like you are, you aren’t strong enough. If you lost control of the wagon, you could run down the rest of us. Let me do it.”
Dora thought that over. She had never used her pregnancy to avoid work, but it was clear that she was weak and exhausted. If she could not control the wagon, it could indeed careen down the mountainside. Finally, she nodded agreement.
The women loaded the wagons and were ready to leave when another train crowded in front of them. It was made up entirely of men. Both Maggie and Penn scanned the faces as they always did, but Reed was not among them.
The men looked at the women in disbelief. “Where’s your men at?” one asked.
“We have none but our two guides. The rest have run off,” Mary told him.
“You going to try this on your own?” He was incredulous. “Can’t no women go down a pass like this without they have men.”
“We intend to try,” Maggie said. She raised her chin in defiance, although she was so afraid she almost shook.
The man called to the others. “This here’s a wagon train of womens—womens! They think they can go by theirself.”
The men stared, and two or three guffawed. “They expect us is going to help ’em?” one asked.
“Yeah, for a price. I say forty dollars a wagon ought to do it.”
“For such a price, we might hire the United States Army,” Mary told him.
Joseph came up to the men. “We thank you for your generosity,” he said with sarcasm. “But we do not need your assistance.”
“They’re womens. You think they can drive them oxen down these mountains?”
“They have done so for a thousand miles. They are magnificent.”
Maggie’s heart swelled with pride. She might have expected such encouragement from Reverend Parnell, but Reverend Swain had been more critical. He was not a man to praise them without reason. He truly believed in them, she realized.
“Now move out,” Joseph told the men, “or the women shall take precedence and show you what they can do.”
As the men started off, one of them broke away. “You might chain a small tree behind your wagon,” he told Mary. “The weight will hold it back.” She thanked him, and he said, “Good luck to you, ma’am.”
William let the men go a long way down the trail before he ordered the women to line up. “We do not want to crowd them,” he said.
“And we want to study how they manage each curve and drop,” Joseph added. “We will learn from their mistakes.”
Just as Mary started down the trail, they heard the sound of a wagon far ahead as it careened over a cliff and crashed below. Men screamed. A mule made a hideous sound until there was a gunshot, and the animal was silenced. Winny crossed herself, and Caroline bowed her head in prayer. There had been a great deal of praying, Maggie thought. She hoped God was listening.
Mary glanced at Maggie, then at William, who did not comment on the tragedy but instead asked, “Are you ready, Miss Madrid?”
Mary could only nod as she urged the oxen forward. The other wagons joined in a line behind her. William and Joseph and the rest of the women walked along. The descent was treacherous. Frequently, the wagons had to stop while the women locked the rear wheels with chains to slow the wagons on the steepest parts of the descent. Maggie did her best to ignore the broken vehicles and dead animals scattered about, but she could not help but shudder at the thought that one or more of the emigrants who had shoved ahead of them had been killed in the accident. The wind came up, raising clouds of dust that settled in her hair and nose and made it difficult to see.
The last hill was the worst, too steep to allow the oxen to proceed on their own. The bottom was littered with the remains of more vehicles and dead oxen and mules.
“We must take each wagon down separately. We will have to use ropes, and we will need all the women to steady the wagon,” William said. He and Joseph took two ropes and tied them to the rear of Mary’s wagon. When he was satisfied the ropes would hold, William offered to drive the lead wagon down the final slope.
Mary shook her head. “You are stronger than I,” she told William. “Your strength will be needed to hold the ropes steady.”
“And you are stronger than I am,” Maggie told Mary. “You, too, should help with the ropes. I will drive the oxen.”
Mary started to object, but Maggie was right. It would take all of the women gripping the ropes to steady the wagon. If they could not hold it back, the wagon would crash down the final slope.
Maggie did not let the others see how frightened she was. She knew that if the women slipped, if they let go of the ropes, she could be crushed by the oxen or thrown over the side of the mountain. Still, if one of them was to die, perhaps it would be best if it was she. After all, Clara was gone, and Dick. California did not seem so important now. Still, Maggie did not want to die. She had not given up before, and she would not now. “Ready?” she called. The others nodded, and she cried, “Giddap!”
The women held tight to the ropes, slowly letting them out as the wagon made its way down the slope. The wagon hit a bump and swerved, knocking against her, and Maggie bit her tongue, tasting blood. Her nails dug into her hands. A woman cried out as she slid and let go of the rope. The others strained to hold the wagon steady. Maggie heard the wheels slide, but the women held fast, and at last the wagon was on flat ground. Maggie closed her eyes in a word of thanks. When she opened them, the women were gathered around her. Mary raised her fist, and the women cheered.
The men who had crowded in front of them stared, their mouths open. They were digging a grave for one of their number who had been killed in the crash that Maggie had heard. The men had stopped to watch as the wagon made its torturous way down the slope, had stood there the entire time, waiting for the wagon to come loose, for Maggie to be killed. Now they looked at the women with awe. One of them stepped forward. “You need our help with your other wagons, do you? No charge.”
William started to reply, but Maggie looked around at the women standing beside her wagon in awe, prouder of themselves than they had been for a thousand miles. She raised her hand to stop Reverend Parnell from speaking. Then, her head high, she replied, “Thank you for the offer, sir, but as you can see, we have no need of it.”
They could have used the help, of course. Their other wagons had to descend the rest of the way into the valley, and the women ached from the strain of holding the ropes taut. But at that moment, not a one of them would have given her place to a man. Nor would they have wanted a man to replace a single woman.
Then Mary spoke up. “We should be happy to offer our help to you, should you need it.”
By the end of the day, all the wagons were clustered beside a stream and the women sat around their campfires, happy and proud but too exhausted to talk. It was then that Dora announced that her baby was coming. The pains had started just as Maggie had begun the final descent. She had not only kept silent but had taken her place at the rope.
“HAS ANYONE AMONG us ever delivered a baby?” Caroline asked. The women looked at each other and shook their heads.
“I have helped mother cows. It cannot be that much different,” Mary told her.
“I have given birth,” Maggie said.
“I…” Sadie began, then stopped. “I have seen a baby born.”
None of the others spoke up, so Maggie said, “Boil water. We will need clean rags, if there are any.”
“In my trunk,” Dora said. “Hurry. I think the baby will not wait longer.” Her face was twisted, and Maggie wondered how she could have borne the pain so long without letting on.
Caroline went to the stream and dipped up a pail of water, then poured it into a kettle that she set on the fire. She dropped a length of twine into the water. Maggie found Dora’s trunk and removed the rags and some tiny garments. When had Dora found the time to stitch them? Maggie wondered. The others made up a pallet on the ground and helped Dora lie down. In a moment, she began to moan and thrash about, trying not to cry out. Mary cleaned off a stick and told Dora to put it in her mouth and bite down when the pains got too bad. That way, she wouldn’t bite her tongue. Bessie rubbed Dora’s back. A few yards away, the rest of the women gathered around a campfire to prepare supper. And to wait. As tired as they were, none would sleep until the birth was over.
Maggie examined the girl. “The baby is crowning,” she said. When the others didn’t understand, she added, “I can see the crown of the head.” She knelt beside Dora. “I know it hurts, but you must push. You will think your body will tear itself apart, but pushing expels the baby, and soon it will be over. And then you will feel such joy.”
Dora didn’t appear to hear. Sweat ran down her face, and she gripped the stick with her teeth. “I did not know it would hurt so much,” she whimpered after a pain let up. Her face contorted again, and she bit down on the stick as she struggled to push out the baby.
“Good girl,” Mary coached. She was kneeling beside Maggie. “You are doing fine. It will be over soon.”
Dora began to pant. Then, as another pain hit her, she cried out, the stick falling out of her mouth. “It hurts. Make it stop,” she begged.
“You walked a thousand miles and helped hold back a covered wagon. Birthing a baby, why, that’s easy,” Mary said.
“No it is not!” Dora pushed again, her whole body straining, and Mary said, “The head is coming out.” She stepped aside, deferring to Maggie, who grasped the infant. Another push and the shoulders were out.
“Almost over. Once more, Dora. Once more,” Maggie said.
The girl closed her eyes and gripped Mary until her fists were white. With one final push, the baby slid into Mary’s hands. The infant twitched and began to mewl.
“We need to cut the cord,” Maggie said.
Caroline hurried to her wagon and removed a pair of scissors from her sewing basket. She plucked the twine from the kettle of hot water, then cut a length. Maggie tied off the cord, then raised the baby in the air and said, “There, it is done.” For the second time that day, the women cheered.
While Caroline and Mary cared for the baby, Maggie attended Dora. “We must dispose of the placenta,” she said “Some say to bury it under a rosebush.”
“A rosebush!” Caroline laughed. “Where do we find a rosebush in this God-forsaken land?” She began to laugh, and with the tension broken, the others laughed with her.
Mary wrapped the baby in the quilt that Maggie had made and placed it in Dora’s arms, showing her how to hold the infant. Tears streamed down the new mother’s face, although whether they were from joy or relief that the pain was gone, Maggie did not know. Dora held the baby close, then asked, “Is it a girl?”
In the excitement, Maggie had not told her. “A boy,” she said.
“A boy?” Dora looked confused. Then she asked, “Is he all right?”
Maggie took only a second too long before answering. “He is breathing fine.” She was not so sure, however. The baby’s breath seemed shallow to her, and the infant was small, maybe too small. Still, she had not attended any births but those of her own children, so she did not know.
When the women were finished and Dora and her son were resting by the campfire, the whole company knelt, and William gave a prayer of thanks. They were all exhausted, and the prayer was short. As they returned to their blankets, Caroline began to sing the Old One Hundred, and Maggie wrapped herself in a quilt to the sounds of “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” As she drifted off to sleep, Maggie thought of the ebb and flow of life on the trail. The company had lost Clara, but it had been given a baby boy.
In the morning, one of the men from the wagon train ahead walked into the women’s camp. “We heard a baby,” he said.
“Born last night,” Maggie told him.
“We thought so.” He held out two wrinkled apples. “For the mother, to give her strength, although after seeing what you did yesterday, I am not sure she needs them.”