Janet Quin-Harkin (13 page)

“He fell off the wagon and the wheel went over him,” she told Libby. “We’ve done all we can but it’s only a matter of time.” She looked up with empty, hopeless eyes. “Such a delight he was too. So full of life and mischief. I put him in the wagon because he would keep wandering off into the grass and I was scared he’d get himself lost.” She gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “We already gave up one child on this trip. My other boy came down with cholera back in Independence. Now there’s just our Alice. . . .” She looked across at a solemn ten-year-old who sat in the corner, staring down at her hands, saying nothing, not moving.

Libby was shaken and horrified. She brought the remains of the stew she had made to the woman, also a couple of eggs and some brandy. “Maybe some nourishing food would help,” she suggested.

The woman gave the ghost of a smile. “You’re most kind,” she said. “I think prayer is all that can help us now. I’m sure the Lord knows what he’s doing.” But her voice faltered and the girl in the corner sprang up to run over to her. “Don’t upset yourself again, Mother,” she whispered, putting her arms around the woman as if their roles were reversed.

Libby came out of the shelter to find Sheldon Rival had walked back to see what the holdup was. He was furious when he found she had given away some of his food. “If you start handing out charity to every beggar along the route, we’ll all die of starvation,” he said. “This is the West. This is every man for himself.”

“How fortunate that I’m a woman then,” Libby said, looking at him steadily. “There was a dying child in there. I’ll just have bread for the next few days if you begrudge the food.”

She walked proudly past him as if he didn’t exist.

“We’re not stopping again for anyone or anything, and that’s an order,” he called after her.

Now they began to experience the problems of being late-comers to the crossing. Earlier parties had used up all the grass for animal feed. The whole trailside was lined with human debris, everything too heavy, or broken, or spoiled was cast aside and even the dust began to smell of decay. The only source of water was the muddy Platte River which flowed beside them in a wide dusty valley. The water holes, dug beside campsites, were foul and muddy. Cholera was everywhere and the number of graves increased to almost one a mile. Besides the dead humans were the dead and dying animals, oxen and mules that had tried to pull too heavy a load too far with too little food and water.

“Can’t we do something, Mama?” Eden cried desperately, as they watched an ox lying beside the trail, lifting his huge head in an entreating groan as the wagons passed.

Libby, suffering with her daughter, took a dipper of water from the barrel and tipped it into the ox’s mouth. She knew it was a waste of water and would not prevent his death, but she felt better as she walked on. She realized how lucky they were to have Sheldon Rival’s supplies with them. The water from his barrels was sweet and pure, while the men had to boil up muddy river water and complained that all their food tasted of mud. Libby encountered the problems with mud when she tried to wash some clothes during a halt. The little petticoats and pantaloons came out browner than they had started. She had just spread them to dry on the back of the wagon when Sheldon Rival came past.

“Come over to my tent. I’ve got some washing that needs doing,” he said.

“You hired me as a cook, not a washerwoman,” Libby said indignantly.

“I also hired you without children,” he said, puffing cigar smoke at her as he spoke. “I can drop you all off right here, if you like.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I wouldn’t put that to the test, if I were you. These men know who’s paying them. In the end they’d do what I wanted, believe me. The clothes will be in my tent.”

Seething with anger, yet not daring to challenge Rival too far, Libby went down to his tent to pick up the dirty clothes. She had never washed men’s underwear before and it revolted her to have to handle Rival’s smelly, sweaty undergarments and shirts. She relieved her tension by beating them mercilessly on a rock at the edge of the river, as she had watched the men do.

When they were finally dry she carried them back to his tent. In answer to his, “Come in” she entered with the pile of clothes.

“Just don’t complain that they are not white anymore,” she said. “The water here is brown and everything washed in it turns brown too—” She broke off as Rival got up from his chair. He was naked except for a small towel around his waist.

“Oh, excuse me, I thought . . .” Libby muttered.

“Bring the things over to me,” Rival said. Then, as she hesitated, “What’s the matter? You never seen a man undressed before?”

“No,” she stammered.

“Your husband went to bed in his clothes?”

“My husband was a gentleman in every sense of the word,” she said. “He always undressed in his own dressing room. When he came to bed he was already in his nightshirt.”

Rival half stifled a guffaw. “Sounds like a proper sissy to me,” he said. “Did his nightshirt have lace around it too? So tell me, who fathered the kids? The milkman? The candlestick maker?”

“Your clothing, sir,” Libby said, thrusting it into his hands.

“Wait, aren’t you curious to see what the rest of a man looks like?” he asked. “Now’s your chance. The best bits are still hidden. . . .” He put down the clean clothes and lowered his hands to his towel.

“Good day, Mr. Rival. I have to get back to my chores,” Libby said and fled, red cheeked, to the sound of his laughter. She reasoned that he was just having fun at her expense, but she decided that she would take care in the future to keep away from him when there were no other men around. This was not always easy, as the nights were now getting cold and Sheldon Rival spent a lot of time alone in his tent, drinking, eating, and reading. The rest of the men were sociable around the campfire in the evenings, but Rival never joined them, or invited them to join him for a drink, except for Gabe Foster. When she carried in his dinner, he seldom missed an opportunity to taunt her, using deliberately crude language and looking at her with hooded, reptilian eyes.

“So tell me about this husband of yours,” Rival asked one evening, pausing to refill his brandy glass as she put a casserole down on the table in front of him.

“My husband?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes, the one you claim you’re going out to in California. The one with the lacy nightshirt.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“He intrigues me, with his lacy nightshirt. Does he know what to do underneath that lacy nightshirt? Does he enjoy a good poke?”

“I beg your pardon?” Libby asked.

Rival laughed coarsely. “You know what I’m talking about so don’t pretend that you’re affronted. I’m talking about a good poke, and I don’t mean the fire—or at least not the fire in the hearth. The fire in a man’s loins, and a woman’s. Does he enjoy it, your husband?”

“What goes on in the privacy of my bedroom is my own business,” Libby said shortly, her face hot with embarrassment, “and a gentleman would never think of mentioning the subject.”

Rival laughed. “But, as you’ve said before, I’m no gentleman. There are no gentlemen between here and your precious Boston. We’re now in the land of take-what-you-can-get and shoot when someone else takes it first. That’s the only law out here. I bet that even your husband is pulling off his pants quickly enough with the first bargirl he meets. No more lacy nightshirts out West.”

“I’m sure I can trust my husband perfectly,” she said.

“Then he must be a pansy boy,” Rival said. “No real man can go for months without a poke—no real woman either. Can you look at me and tell me that you don’t miss it? That you wouldn’t, if the time and place and person were right?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not coming in this tent anymore if you insist on being so crude and disgusting. I’ll have one of your men bring your food in the future.”

Rival laughed again. “You see, I’ve caught you. You didn’t deny that you missed it. What you need is a good poke from a real man. It might make you into a real warm woman.”

“I’ll let you know if ever I meet a real man,” Libby said coldly and made her exit.

How dare he! she muttered as she stalked back down to the fire.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” Gabe Foster asked, grabbing at her arm as she swept past him.

“You men are all alike,” Libby snapped. “Why can’t you all just leave me alone and treat me like one of the men?”

“Very well, if that’s what you want,” Gabe said. “There’s a poker game tonight after supper and Jake’s breaking a new keg of rum. How about it?”

“Oh, go away,” she said, pushing past him, her anger softened.

That night she thought about the conversation again. The worst thing was that Rival had been right. She did miss having a man in her bed. But certainly not Sheldon Rival. Not if he were the last man on this earth. She found that her thoughts had wandered to Gabe Foster and the way he looked at her that was so unnerving . . . No! she told herself firmly. Think of Hugh. Think of poor Hugh with a pickaxe in his hand, his palms all blistered, digging gold. Think of how surprised he’d be. How happy. . . . But when she tried to conjure up his face she found that the image was already vague and indistinct, like someone seen through a fog.

A
T LAST THE
broad, dusty valley of the Platte began to narrow and the trail began to climb into a desolate country of steep hills clad in somber evergreens. The river itself swirled and thundered as it was channeled through its narrowed bed and each small stream that flowed into it presented a difficult crossing. Sometimes they had to raise the wagon beds to keep the contents dry, and it was a job to stop the oxen from being swept away in the fast-flowing water. At least they had enough to drink for a while and there were patches of grass which parties ahead of them had overlooked, so that they could progress faster than they had done for several days. The ride was now bone shaking as they jerked over crevices and boulders along the path.

Now she had seen what could happen to a child left in a wagon. Libby chose to walk almost all the time, her little girls close beside her. The girls, however, had become more adventurous and constantly wanted to run off and explore. Best of all they liked to ride ahead with Gabe, coming back with tales of deer or antelope they had spotted in the forest. Almost every day Gabe offered Libby the chance to ride his horse and every day Libby refused.

“I don’t know why you don’t like Mr. Foster,” Eden said. “He’s the nicest man I ever met.”

“I like him better than Daddy,” Bliss chimed in. “Why can’t he be our daddy instead?”

“That’s a foolish thing to say, Bliss,” Libby chided. “Your daddy is working very hard for us and we’re going to help him. Mr. Foster is being very nice to you children, I agree, but if we were back in Boston, he would not be the sort of man we could mix with socially.”

“But we’re not in Boston, Mama,” Eden said. “You can mix with anyone you like out here.”

“That’s enough, Eden,” Libby snapped. “I’m beginning to wish that we’d brought Miss Hammersham along to keep you two in order. You’re already turning into little savages and we’ve only been away from home for two months. You’d never have answered back at home.”

“You’re turning into a savage too, Mama,” Eden said, grinning at Bliss. “Look at your dress and you don’t even wear a corset anymore.”

“I have to dress to stay comfortable,” Libby said primly, “but I remain a lady at heart. So should you. Now let me hear you recite your times tables again. Begin with seven.”

“Aw, shucks,” Eden said, causing Libby to look at her sharply.

“Eden Grenville, I do not wish to hear language like that,” she said. “If you can’t behave properly, I’ll have you sit in the wagon and practice your sewing stitches all day.”

She looked up to see Gabe’s face. He tried to hide his amusement as she frowned at him.

“Can we ride with Mr. Foster, Mama?” Bliss asked.

“No, you cannot. I want you to sit inside the wagon and do your lessons,” Libby said. “If you were home it would be lesson time right now. Your father will be very disappointed if you have forgotten all that you have learned. Go along—help Sissy into the wagon.”

When the children had run on ahead, Gabe rode up to Libby. “You’re going to have to give them some freedom, you know,” he said. “They’ve got to survive in very tough circumstances. You’re not helping by keeping them as prissy little Boston misses, holding your hand all day.”

“Mr. Foster,” she said, turning coldly toward him. “I am trying to bring up my children the way that I see fit. It is my belief that we shall only survive if we keep up our standards. By that I mean standards of cleanliness and manners and morality. I want my children ready to step back into the highest level of society when we return and I aim to keep them safe and sound until we do.”

“You’re going to have to unbend, Libby,” Gabe said quietly. “You can’t spend every moment watching and worrying over them.”

“So you’re suggesting that I let them get lost or step on snakes or fall off wagons like that poor little child in the shelter?” she demanded. “But then you seem to take a very light view of life and of people. People only exist for your amusement and profit, don’t they? That must be why you have never made any attachments to hold you to one place. Since you have none of your own, I’ll thank you to keep your views on child rearing to yourself, Mr. Foster.”

Gabe raised his hat. “Good day to you, ma’am,” he said and rode on.

Later that day they had to cross the Platte River itself. There was a long line of wagons waiting for the Mormon ferry. Sheldon Rival refused to be delayed again, and rode ahead to negotiate. He came riding back with a beet-colored face, brandishing his whip. “Those damn crooks!” he blustered. “Call themselves religious? They’re nothing but cheap crooks. Not only would they not consider taking us out of turn, but they have the gall to demand five dollars per wagon to ferry us across. Five dollars! Can you imagine sixty dollars, just for the wagons?” He slid from his horse and handed it to the nearest man. “Get Jimmy and tell him we’re going to ferry ourselves across right here. I’m not waiting to pay those crooks five dollars a wagon.”