A Dream for Tomorrow (27 page)

“That’s right,” Clara agreed. “We’re unit one now. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

“That’s for sure,” Jess said. “Not on our very first week of leading the train.”

Fortunately the men were already at the wagons, and it looked like they were nearly ready to go. Elizabeth hurried to stow her basket of goods in the back of the wagon, but seeing the letter, she pulled it out and tucked it in her pocket. Although she was disappointed it wasn’t from Malinda and John, she was curious as to why Mrs. Barron had written to her. She hoped it wasn’t to complain about the farm.

“You wanna drive now?” Brady asked from where he was adjusting a harness.

“No, you and JT can continue to drive. We’ll switch after the midday break.”

He nodded, climbing slowly into the seat.

“
Wagons ho
!” Captain Brownlee yelled from the lead wagon. Sometimes the captain rode one of his horses. Sometimes he rode in the wagon with the cook. But once he yelled “wagons ho,” everyone knew it was time to move.

Elizabeth began walking quickly, wishing to get ahead of the train as she and the other women had been doing lately. Walking up front wasn’t merely invigorating, it allowed them to avoid eating trail dust. But to her surprise, none of the other women were walking up there. Perhaps they were either riding or just farther behind. All the same, she continued walking at a good fast pace, hoping to gain enough distance to walk more leisurely so she could read this mysterious letter from Mrs. Barron. Hopefully there was no bad news.

Finally, satisfied that she could slow down, she pulled out the letter and carefully opened the envelope. But to her surprise, it simply contained another envelope. She examined the inner envelope to see it was addressed to the farm in Kentucky, but it had Elizabeth’s name on top—and the handwriting was familiar. She flipped it over to see that this letter was indeed from her sister-in-law Malinda. There was also a short note on the back that appeared to be written by Mrs. Barron, informing her that this letter had arrived shortly after Elizabeth and her family had departed from the farm in March.

Elizabeth thought back to that momentous day. It seemed like another lifetime. And indeed it had been nearly five months ago. Had it really taken five months for this letter to catch up to Elizabeth? And why was it sent to Fort Hall? She flipped the outer envelope over again, seeing that it was indeed addressed to Fort Hall.

Feeling slightly confused, she opened the second envelope, the one from Malinda. Why on earth hadn’t Mrs. Barron forwarded this letter to one of their earlier stops so that she might have picked it up weeks and perhaps even months ago? Elizabeth had left her a full list of dates and places for mail forwarding. Perhaps Mrs. Barron had lost it.

Judging by the date on Malinda’s letter, she had penned this shortly after receiving Elizabeth’s letter announcing that they were migrating to Oregon. Elizabeth smiled to herself, thinking of how excited Malinda must have been to learn she had family coming to settle nearby. But as Elizabeth began to read what felt like a very hastily penned letter, she realized that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

My dearest Elizabeth
,

I was so very surprised to read your letter and so very taken aback that I had to read it twice and then thrice. Now I am writing to you with shaking hand and as quickly as my pen can move.
Do not come to Oregon, Elizabeth.
I beseech you,
do not come
. This is no place for you and your children these days. And this is no place for your aging parents either.
Do not come!
I realize my advice must be shocking to you because I have written such glowing praises of this gloriously beautiful but violent land. I wrote to you only of the splendor of this country because I did not want to discourage you or cause you to worry about our family and the travails of living on the frontier. I felt compassion for how you suffered when you lost your beloved James. I did not wish to trouble you with more sorrows. And I never dreamed that you, a widow with small children, would try to come
.

I understand your bereavement even more now that I am widowed also. John died of influenza in November. His death was not the result of an Indian raid. However the Indian wars have been numerous and violent these past several years, starting with the Coquille Massacre in the fall of 1851 when five explorers were murdered. This was followed by another bloody battle where fifteen Indians were killed as retribution. On it has gone, killing and bloodshed. Just last week we learned of the most recent incident at the Applegate River Camp, where Dr. W. Myers was killed. I am weeping as I write this, Elizabeth, because the good doctor did not deserve to die. Especially as this frontier has such great need of doctors. Perhaps my own John would still be alive if we’d had a doctor nearby. I pray this letter reaches you in time to deter you from making this most dreadful mistake. Even now I must decide if I should bring the children back to Kentucky. Perhaps we can stay with you on your lovely farm. I do hate to give up on John’s dream. And it will be difficult to leave our home and this beautiful but treacherous land, but I fear the price is too high. I would write more, but I must get this letter posted as soon as possible. Please, dear Elizabeth,
do not come
. Stay where you are safe. Count your blessing that you have a home where people are civilized
.

Most sincerely, your sister by marriage,

Malinda Martin

Elizabeth’s hands were trembling as she read and reread this horrifying letter. It seemed too horrible, too frightening to be true. For a moment, Elizabeth thought perhaps she was simply asleep and suffering from a ghastly nightmare. Sometimes she had them, suffering fearful images of frontier tragedies. And yet here she was with the sun on her head and the ground beneath her feet…and this letter in her hand. She stared at it, wishing it were untrue or perhaps a cruel hoax. But the handwriting was clearly Malinda’s. Perhaps the penmanship was not as smooth and controlled as usual, but considering the circumstances, that was understandable.

Elizabeth turned to look at the wagon train steadily moving toward her, followed by a low cloud of brown dust. Everyone she loved was represented in that slowly moving train—pressing onward step-by-step toward their final destination. Would they be met with bloody Indian battles, sickness, and perhaps even death?

Tears were streaking down her cheeks now. What had she done? What had she gotten them all into? Why had she ever encouraged her family and her new friends to follow such a dangerous path? Her stomach twisted as if she would be sick. And suddenly the sad news of James’ brother’s death overwhelmed her. John was dead! Both brothers had died of illnesses—within four years of each other.

Poor Malinda, like Elizabeth, was now a widow, trying to maintain her farm and raise her four young children in the midst of Indian battles on the Oregon frontier. It was all too unimaginable. Oh, why had Elizabeth been so persistent to pursue such a hopeless dream? Why had she involved so many others?

She pressed a fist to her mouth as she stared at the wagon train, which was quickly catching up with her. She didn’t know what to do. Everything in her wanted to rush back to the wagons. To run to her father and insist that they must stop moving westward, to tell him that they must turn their wagons around and head eastward and return to Kentucky as quickly as possible. But that wasn’t possible. Turning back like that would be to invite another sort of disaster—a deadly race against weather and provisions. Oh, what had she gotten them all into?

Instead of running back to the wagons, where she would have to divulge the awful truth, she continued to walk forward. And putting one foot in front of the next, she began to pray, fervently begging God to help her to sort out this unfortunate mess, begging him to lead her family to safety, begging for a miracle.

After an hour or so she realized that the rumbling sound of the wagon train had ceased, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps some miracle had transpired and the wagon train had decided to turn back. But when she turned around she realized the train, as usual, was simply stopping for the midday meal. She also realized that her family would wonder what had become of her. With fear and trepidation at the thought of sharing this grimmest of news, she hurried back toward the wagons.

“Where have you been?” Clara asked as Elizabeth joined them.

“I’m sorry,” she breathlessly told her. “I lost track…of time.”

“No matter.” She handed her a stack of tin plates and utensils, and Elizabeth, grateful to be busy, tried to shove thoughts of Indian massacres into the recesses of her mind. However, after they finished their meal and after Elizabeth did her share of cleaning up and putting the last of the pots and dishes away, she set off to speak to her father. She could not keep this news from him.

Finding him examining his team and the harnesses, she impatiently waited for him to finish. “I need to speak to you,” she said abruptly.

“Elizabeth.” He stood up straight with a surprised expression. “Why aren’t you attending to your own team?” His tone was terse.

“JT and Brady will see to my team.”

“Don’t forget that it’s your job too.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to scold. But the captain’s warnings keep ringing in my head. We all must be on our toes or risk calamity.”

“Father,” she began in a shaky voice, afraid she was about to cry again.

“What is it, child?” He came over and peered at her face. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m a bit unwell—in spirit.”

“What is it?” His brow creased. “Does this have to do with Eli Kincaid?”

“Eli?” She was shocked. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Oh, just something your mother said.”

She firmly shook her head. “No. This has nothing to do with Eli, Father.” She pulled the rumpled letter from her skirt pocket. “It has to do with this letter from…from Malinda.” She handed it to him. “It’s too horrible to even speak of. Maybe you should just read it for yourself.”

Asa looked at the letter and then up to where Captain Brownlee was just mounting his horse. The captain paused for a moment, removing his felt hat and waving it up and down—his signal that drivers should be in the wagons.

“No time to read it now.” Asa tucked the letter into his shirt pocket and hurried toward the wagon seat, where Clara was already waiting. “I’ll read it as we travel.”

She nodded and hurried back to her own wagon, where Brady was waiting by the team and Ruth and Flax were seated. “You wanna drive now, ma’am?” Brady asked hopefully.

“Yes,” she told him. “You take a break. Rest in the back if you like.”

He shook his head. “D’ruther walk some, I reckon.”

“JT is riding with Matthew,” Ruth said as Elizabeth climbed up. “Jess is walking with Belinda, Evelyn, and Amelia.” Ruth grinned. “And it was my idea. I told Jess that since Fiona was gone on the Applegate Trail, it was time for her to make some new women friends.”

“
Wagons ho!
”

Elizabeth released the brake, and clicking her tongue loudly, she snapped the reins. She watched as Beau and Bella obediently moved forward, slowly leading the rest of her team…faithfully plodding one step at a time…steadily pulling the wagon closer and closer…mile by mile…to where she no longer wished to go.

Chapter Eighteen

N
ot wishing to worry Ruth, Elizabeth kept up the pretense that all was well, chatting and singing with her daughter for the remainder of the afternoon. She knew she should be thankful that the trail wasn’t too demanding here, because based on her father’s words and judging by the landscape ahead, it would soon get much rougher. Still, she thought she would rather face the worst rugged trail than the news in Malinda’s letter.