The Way West Part 32

Summers nodded. "Others has been through."

"A teamster's got to get aboard, for there's no room for him by the side. Wisht whoever cut the trail had cut a road and not a mole run long as they were doin' it."

Summers was silent, looking beyond to the high, straightrising mountains.

"And when we get through, we got them tarnal hills. Be more broke wagon tongues today, or I'm a n.i.g.g.e.r."

"Want to turn back?" Summers' mouth had twisted to a grin.

"Not yet a while, I reckon."

Behind Evans the other wagons were beginning to pull up. "This ain't makin' hay," he said to Summers and climbed up to his seat and spoke to his team while Summers led off.

It was, Evans thought, like pushing a hole through the growth. Branches laced over the team and parted to the bulge of the wagon and ripped along the covered bows while the wheels jolted on the stumps. All he could see was the oxen stumbling and the thin trail and the brush coming at him and squeezing to the sides like water to the bow of a boat. The sound of it along the wagon top was like hard-driven rain.

Beyond, the trail led down a wash and up the other side and lifted from the river bottom to teeter along the shoulder of a mountain.

Up from the wash Evans stopped again. They called this slanted scar ahead a trail! The wagon wasn't built that wouldn't lose its balance on it and fall over on its side. While he looked at it, Summers turned his horse around. "What you thinkin', hoss?"

"I ain't thinkin'. I'm just seein' wagons keel over."

"She's sidelong, sure enough."

"Wisht I had a wagon high-wheeled on the down side."

"An' sidehill critters, too, built to stand even on a slant."

"I'll pull forward a ways to where she starts so's to give the other wagons room behind, and then we'll take 'em over one or two at a time, with two-three men standin' on the up side. Reckon that'll work?"

Summers said, "Sure. Must've worked afore or the trail wouldn't be there."

Evans poked his team and stopped again and waited for the others to come out of the brush. He walked down the line then, telling how they'd try the slant. "Best all get out when your time comes. Don't want a woman or a young'un in a wagon that tips over. We'll try mine first, and if it works then we'll take two or maybe three at once. All right? Carpenter? Gorham? You feel like helpin'?"

They stepped up, their faces lined already from the morning's drive, their eyes narrowed on the trail against the hard glint of the sun.

Evans said, "Whyn't you whack the team, Carpenter? I'm heftier'n you. Watch you stay ahead of the wagon. Don't want no one mashed."

They got it over. They roosted on the side and got it over, though the up wheels tried to lift once and barely skimmed the ground.

"Good enough," Evans said. "We'll know better how to go next time. You take the team on a ways, Carpenter, and tie it up somewheres, and we'll go back for more." Already he saw another wagon starting, with Patch walking by the side.

It was slow and sweaty work, made the worse because ahead, where Evans had hoped to see the bottom widen, it still ran pinched. It was just a stream-cut through the mountains, a stream-cut choked by brush. Beyond the little resting place they brought the wagons to, the trail squirmed out of sight.

Tramping back with d.i.c.k and Gorham to bring more outfits over, Evans wished that hard times, if they had to come, came early in the morning when men and teams were lively. Along toward noon the spirits started down and so made heavy travel heavier. Not that he felt whipped. Not that. Leave it to him and they'd roll longer than they ever thought. The Columbia was just beyond the Blues, or leastwise not so far.

The air stirred lazily, and he took off his hat to get the good of it. "How much more of this kind of goin' would you say, d.i.c.k?"

"Ought to be over the worst of it by night, barrin' trouble."

"Hope so," Gorham said. He tilted his head upward. "Ain't it time to eat?"

Some of the women and children were following behind a wagon that Daugherty drove, making a ragged line against the mountain slope. Evans and the two with him stepped out of the trail to let Daugherty go by. Daugherty had covered the worst of the slant. He spit over the wheel of his wagon. "And 'tis said the road to h.e.l.l is steep!"

Rebecca was among the women, along with Judith Fairman and Mercy and Mrs. Gorham. "We'll noon up when we get 'em over," Evans told them. The thought came to him and slid away that Becky was the natural leader of the women. It was as if she had strength enough for all, a quiet, long-enduring strength. Without it, he didn't know what Judith Fairman would have done. "Tuckered?" he asked, just to be saying something to her.

Two of the young ones -Jeff Byrd and George Carpenter, it was- had stopped to tug a rock on edge. "Look out!" they shouted and gave it a turn. It started slow, as if half minded to lie down, and picked up speed and flew thudding down the mountainside and tore into the brush, flushing a flock of ducks off the hidden river.

"Don't you wish you had time to roll a rock, Lije?" Summers asked as the three of them started on. "I knowed you when you did."

"Reckon I do."

The little smile went from Summers' face, leaving just the mark of thought. "No time to roll a rock," he said as if speaking to himself.

Evans wasn't of a mind then to pry into what d.i.c.k meant. "Not till we git the rest across," he said.

Byrd was waiting for them. He stood faced up to the trail. It occurred to Evans that age had come on him, age without age's gumption, giving him the appearance of an old boy. "It ain't nothing'," Evans said to Mrs. Byrd, who had sat down to catch the shade a scrubby cedar made. She looked well enough, sitting there quiet with two of her children by her. She looked as she had at first, a milk-mild pigeon to the eye that hadn't seen beneath. "We'll put enough men on her so she can't tip over. How about it, d.i.c.k? You and Gorham and me?" They climbed up. "Push 'em across, Byrd."

Things would have gone well enough if the outfit had been sound. The team eased onto the sidelong trail, pulling slow but steady, and the wagon canted to the slope and the three of them held it down. They were maybe halfway across when the downhill front wheel hit a rock. From his place on the wagon Evans couldn't see it, but he felt the jolt and heard the splinter of overweighted spokes. The wagon dropped like a cow on one knee and hung for an instant and lifted and crashed over.

Perched on the upper side, holding to the wagon box underneath its cover. Evans couldn't think to jump until too late. He circled over with the wagon and cracked against a bow and skidded off and hit the ground sprawled out. He scrambled up. "d.i.c.k?"

Gorham had gone over, too. He got his knees under him and stood up. "G.o.ddam it!" he said.

"You hurt?"

"No, G.o.ddam itl"

d.i.c.k was coming around the wagon. "All right? Whyn't you hosses jump?"

Evans said, "Sure."

"Christ, what a mix-up!" It was Gorham, looking over the wagon.

Evans hadn't thought of Byrd till then. Byrd stood silent by his halted team as if, of all the words, there wasn't one to say. He stood with a look of raw defeat that sharpened Evans' irritation. "Looks like trouble can't leave you alone, Byrd. Poor wagons you bought."

"I'm sorry."

The man was sorry. The unfit, pitiful d.a.m.n man was sorry. Standing there with his wrecked wagon, with the wheel collapsed and the bows caved in and things messed up inside, what he was was sorry.

Of a sudden Evans was, too. "Never mind," he said. "We'll get it fixed up."

Mrs. Byrd was hurrying along the sidehill, carrying her youngest one. "Are you all right, Clarence? You're not hurt?"

From the other side people were coming up, children running first and then the men and then Becky and Mrs. Gorham. They gathered round.

Mrs. Byrd put the child down. Now that she'd asked if Byrd was all right, it was as if she didn't know words, either.

To all of them Evans said, "Let's git the pots a-b'ilin'. Time to noon." He bobbed his head to Becky's silent question about himself. "Let's git goin'. You, too, Mrs. Byrd. Would one of you unhitch Byrd's team, and some help unload the wagon?"

When they had it unloaded, he sent them on, staying himself to talk to Byrd a minute. "Didn't mean to sound like scoldin' you," he said. "I was just put out."

"You don't need to say anything."

"We'll git a saw."

"Saw?"

"To make a cart with. We'll saw your wagon in two."

"Oh."

"Other wagons has got room if you need some. Room for part of your plunder and your young'uns."

Byrd didn't answer. His eyes turned from the wagon to the brush of the creek below, to the loose stock that were beginning to foot it across the sidehill, to the mountains rising, to the far curve of sky.

"So you ain't in such bad case. Hig'll know how to make a first-rate cart."

Byrd's gaze was still lost in distance. "It's a long way back."

"Sure is. We got time to do some sawin' before we eat."

Weatherby walked off from camp, giving a last long stare at the little ring of card players. The train needed rest, he knew, but ways of resting could be wicked. Better to be toiling on the trail, better to be pushing the footloose stock, better to wear the body out than to corrupt the soul.

The deed seemed worse, the hearty slapping down of cards more evil, because the hand of G.o.d lay on this place. The Grande Ronde, people called it. It was such a spot as even Adam, after the beauty of the Garden, might still have thought was beautiful. The walking feet trod through rich gra.s.ses. The roving eye saw clover and wild flax and timber on the watercourses, and all around, as if to shield the place, the n.o.ble mountains lifting heavenward. Here were deer and elk and bear, and fish enough to feed the mult.i.tude without a miracle. .And still the men played cards!

Meditation, he thought. This was a place for meditation, for giving self to G.o.d, for partaking of His strength and love. He let his spirit flow, let it flow humbly with its Maker's. A man had only to do this much to feel the healing grace. He had only to acknowledge G.o.d, he had only to accept His will in meekness to know the Holy Presence.

Walking by himself, seeing the sun going to rest in a majesty of fire, Weatherby wondered at the perverse way of men and women. Card players. Sabbath-breakers. Swearers. Readers of romances. Wearers of finery. How could they choose the temporal, sinful pleasures when salvation was the price?

Sometimes he felt that he had failed. In spite of all his exhortations the train still broke the Sabbath, condoning the sin, by saying it was necessary. Its people liked the fiddle's music. They danced. They swore. They played card games. Some talked like deists, as if G.o.d didn't care. Give me strength, Lord! he asked. Give me power!

And yet his self-doubts seemed unworthy. G.o.d had given him work to do. G.o.d had given his old body an endurance equal to his task. G.o.d had seen him safe through all vicissitudes. G.o.d had called him west. All glory to His namel It wasn't within the right of man to question G.o.d. The righteous man accepted, and knew peace. The sinner scoffed or ranted and in the fire of soul got a foretaste of the h.e.l.l to come. He had had his foretaste as a younger man. He had known the torments of the flesh, and yielded, and known the torments of the spirit. And then G.o.d had given him to see, and, lo, his pa.s.sion was become a righteous pa.s.sion and his l.u.s.t the love of Jesus.

Even now, he thought, the devil lurked. He wasn't always free of wickedness after all his years of fighting it. Sometimes, off guard, he'd think of women yet, of Mercy Evans and her husband and the young flesh and the warm bed, and he would push the devil back and cry to G.o.d to forgive and strengthen him. It seemed to him afterwards that his preaching had an extra force, a special urgency for sinners to repent; and the force and the urgency were wonderful and mysterious and spoke the love divine.

Ahead of him an Indian came riding on a horse, a Cayuse Indian, doubtless, or perhaps a Nez Perce. Here again, he knew, was the living proof of faith, not in the single Indian but in all the Indians hereabouts. They were clean and clothed. They were good husbandmen and artisans, having wheat and corn and vegetables and dressed skins to trade for garments, calico and nankins, and good horses to exchange for cattle. Their squaws were modest and industrious, happy to make or mend moccasins for a simple gift. In these tribes had disappeared the savage heathenisms -and all because of Christianity. All because two consecrated men, Dr. Whitman and another -Spalding had established missions somewhere north to bring the truth to them.

He said, "Good evening," to the Indian.

The Indian smiled and said, "How do?" He brought his horse up. It had a homemade saddle on it, with skins tied on behind.

"Cayuse?"

"Christian, me."

The answer struck Weatherby as the proper one, as the answer to the question that he should have asked. "I am a Christian. I am a preacher."

The Indian nodded as if in halting understanding of the words. "Good man. Pray."

"Let us have a prayer. Let us talk to the Holy Spirit."

"Pray now?"

"Pray now."

The Indian slipped from his horse and knelt with Weatherby in the gra.s.s.

Weatherby tried to make his prayer simple. "We thank Thee, G.o.d, for Thy blessings. We thank Thee for life and health and all Thy loving bounty. We thank Thee for Thy love of all of us, white man and red man and all the men of earth. Help us to be worthy. Help us to do Thy will. We pray Thee, help us not to swear or worship false G.o.ds or idols or to drink firewater or commit adultery. Let Thy mercy rest on us."

While he spoke, he said an inward prayer, asking G.o.d for the strength and wisdom to do His will among the poor heathens of the Columbia as Whitman and Spalding were doing with their tribes.

He said, "Amen," then, and the Indian said, "Amen."

Weatherby felt refreshed when he got up. More than ever he felt chosen, and strong, adequate, sure that in this little meeting, in this little worship by a white man and a red, G.o.d had shown Himself.

"Me go to camp," the Indian said, motioning toward the idled train. He led his horse along.

The men were still playing cards, so intent on the game that none but Summers appeared to notice their approach. They played with noise and violence, slapping down the cards as if force would rule the outcome.

Weatherby tried to guide his guest around. He was angry and ashamed at this example of the white man's way, and fearful that a strange temptation would fascinate the Indian.

The Indian wouldn't be herded. He stepped up to the circle, Weatherby trailing after him, and watched for a long moment. He caught Summers' questioning eye. Then, to Weatherby's surprise, to his satisfaction, to his immense delight, he said, "Bad! Bad!"

Weatherby liked to think the game broke up as a consequence. Summers said, "Party's over, hoss," and the others began to get up. Summers went on, "If this here's the worst you ever do, you'll be a heap good Injun." His eyes went to Weatherby. They were gray, smiling, skeptical eyes, and Weatherby might have felt compelled to answer them but for the continuing wonder of the Indian's words.

He moved away as the game stopped and Daugherty and the Cayuse began to d.i.c.ker over a deer hide. But the "Bad! Bad!" stayed with him. Into the mouth of a simple savage G.o.d had put the truth. In His greatness, in His mysterious workings, G.o.d had put the truth there. It was too bad that Whitman and Spalding weren't Methodists.

For three days Evans let the train dawdle across the Grande Ronde, though he fretted to be really rolling. Man and beast could use a rest, and the two Byrds needed time to get their courage up. Here, too, Patch took sick, his bowels upset by something, and looked so peaked for a spell that Evans doubted he was fit to go. Other reasons, big and small, came in. The women had a pile of washing. The Cayuse Indians offered things for trade. Among a believing tribe, Brother Weatherby was as close to heaven as he'd get on earth. By idling here the train might make the miles ahead without another rest.

The days were fair, with no hint of snowfall in the Blues. That made the waiting easier, that and the closeness of the Blues, rimmed around to westward. Seeing them against a cloudless sky, Evans knew he'd been too anxious. Snow was a long way off.

But fall was here. He saw it in the crisping gra.s.s out from the watered bottoms, in leaves that, earlier than most, were turning waxy-yellow, in the shortened time of sun. The snow would snow all right, and rain would rain down on the lower river, and, after rest, they'd best be wheeling. The question wasn't if they'd get there. The question was how long it took to build a cabin, how long to raise a shelter against the cold rain blown in from the sea.

While they waited, hunting, fishing, trading with the Indians down to their final pair of pants, a train of wagons straggled by, looking lank and battered, and sent a rider to their camping place a half mile off the trail. It had been Captain Welch's company, the rider said, or part of it, now long since broken from the starting train and subtracted from and added to along the way. They'd had their griefs, too. One burying. The G.o.ddam Indians on the Snake, stealing horses for the pay of finding them! How many following behind? G.o.d knew. A pa.s.sel. This train was traveling light and fast. No. Couldn't stop. No time to gab. They aimed to get to Oregon, but thankee just the same, and had they heard about the party short-cutting up the Malheur?

Evans watched the train string on. He didn't care that it had pa.s.sed, not much. Ahead was likely gra.s.s enough. It didn't matter that he couldn't brag on being first. What mattered were the companies following behind, the pa.s.sel of people, maybe running into thousands, the home hunters, the darers, the stouthearted, the long-suffering. If he closed his eyes he could see them ranked along the trail, gray with dust and leaned by hardship but with the light of purpose in their eyes. Men and women. Children. Sucking babies. Milk cows. Mules and horses. Oxen. Plows. Seeds to decorate a dooryard. Books for unbuilt schools. The little fixings for the home to be. Whose was Oregon? Here, England, came the answerl But though he wasn't jealous of the men ahead, nor anxious any more about snow in the Blues, he was eager to roll on. A thousand times, he bet, the Columbia flowed across his mind, a broad sheet streaming to Vancouver and the mouth of the Willamette. If he could just stand by it, he would count the trip as good as done. He'd be there now except for sickness, deaths and accidents and halts made for repairs and rest. Tadlock was right about one thing: a man ran into enough delays without excusing more.

They pulled out on a balmy morning, rested now and full of go, and climbed up in the Blues, making light of a two-mile rise so stiff they sometimes had to use six yokes. Above was rolling country with groves of yellow pine. Over it the trail ran stony and dipped to cross the Grande Ronde River and led on to a bottom where they camped. Seven miles or eight, they'd made, as Evans counted it. Good enough, all things considered.

The next day they did a little better over country just as hard-up a mountain, along a ridge, down and up a dozen sharp-pitched hollows, over craggy rocks and into plains and groves again where deadfall lay. All around was such grand scenery that a teamster had to prod himself to watch out where he went. Mountains reared around him and bare stone lifted and distance fell away below the edging wheels. Trees sprang up as if for thinning, and here and there a sweet park opened with highland flowers in bloom. It was as if here G.o.d had put the leavings of creation, the bits and ma.s.ses of the stuff He'd worked with. Ten miles. They pitched camp in a park.

The third day, though, was best of all, though no softer than the rest. Pulling up a slope, head raised to see what lay beyond, Evans whoaed his team, for yonder, yonder, blue and white and dizzy in the distance, rose the Cascade range and, like the queen of heights, Mount Hood, like the nippled queen, like a snowy cloud, like proof and promise. Hard by would be the river. Evans looked back and saw Rebecca looking and felt he couldn't speak for the crowding in his chest. They made nine miles that day, across the main ridge of the Blues.

Evans didn't hold in now. He doubted that he could, even if the train had wanted to. It didn't. Its people felt like him. Here on the final stretch they had a long, hard, driving strength, with Mount Hood and Mount Saint Helens like beacons in their eyes. The wagons jolted to the Umatilla, down the long drop from the Blues, coming onto prairie land again, to cottonwood and chokecherry and balm of Gilead along the stream and cultivated patches grown by Cayuse Indians who wished to trade for clothes.

The train camped there and lost a strayed or stolen horse and rolled on down the Umatilla, crossing and recrossing it and climbing to the side, to rolling, open land bristly with dried-out gra.s.s. And now, besides the snowy peaks, Evans saw the valley opening, the valley of the Columbia with the shades of distance in it.

It seemed he couldn't think but of the river. It flowed beneath and over and around his other thoughts -the Columbia and the Dalles and the mission buildings there, and afterwards each family for itself, finding ways to get downriver. Except that would his family be alone? Could he cut loose from the Byrds and Fairmans, who in their different ways leaned so much on him and Becky? The question slid off in the tide. Other questions too. Like why were Brownie and his girl still stiff like new acquaintances. Mercy was all right. He had to say that much and more, and Becky swore by her. A quiet, willing, pretty girl with more heft to her than on her father's fare.