The Way West Part 35

"It ain't importance that I'm after."

"What is it?"

Again d.i.c.k took time to answer, and again the answer troubled Evans. "I'm bound to chase my tail, I reckon, like a pup. "You could live with us, an' double welcome."

"This child knows that, Lije. Your way's cut out, and it's a good way -for you. Mine's different."

"You just got it in your head that it is."

"That's mostly what counts."

"Where would you point then?"

"Maybe back to Bridger. Maybe to the Bear. Maybe north to Blackfoot country. Can't tell."

"There'll be snow in the mountains before you can git across."

"Likely."

"d.i.c.k, for a smart man you ain't got a lick of sense."

"Not a speck. But it ain't that I don't like you and your woman and Brownie, Lije. It ain't that." Summers turned and stepped away. "Right now you're interferin' with business. I came out here to make water."

Evans couldn't find anything more to say. It seemed he couldn't think beyond the feel of loss, beyond the knowing that it was a shame for a man like d.i.c.k to waste himself. What was it in the past that pulled him back, that put the lines of wanting in his face sometimes when he didn't know that anyone was looking? Trapping? Indians? Buffalo? The wild and empty country? Evans could understand a love of them. He liked open land himself. But still a man must live ahead. And such things didn't count for much compared with Oregon and the life now opening up. Besides, those times were gone or going.

When d.i.c.k turned back, Evans asked, "Don't it mean nothin' to you, d.i.c.k, for Oregon to be America's?"

"You'll tend to that, Lije. I kind of want to see the Popo Agie again."

Evans didn't ask what or where the Popo Agie was, or why d.i.c.k wished to see it. It didn't matter now. What or where or why would be just words to go along with other words that, hearing, he couldn't quite make sense of. "See you in the mornin', anyhow," he told d.i.c.k as they walked back to camp.

"Sure thing."

He didn't though. Before he roused, before any others did, d.i.c.k had slipped away.

Mountains walled on either side, mountains hanging over, mountains bare and mountains treed, their rims high-dizzy in the blue of sky. The broad-beamed river, salted from the touch of ocean, barely flowing in between. Waterfalls along the southern wall like frills of snowy ribbon. Moisture in the air, the damp outbreath of sea.

Time running slowly with the slow-borne boats. Shadowed morning, glinty noon, shadowed afternoon. Nights broody with the feel of mountains, broody with the sense of loss, the campfire sparking small against the greatness of the dark. Rice. Bread. More fish. Sleep. The lap of water on the narrow sh.o.r.e.

And wind. Wind out of the west, sea wind, fighting oar and current. Wind that guarded Oregon. The Cape Horn wind that drove the boats to sh.o.r.e. Wind that changed its mind, that eased or turned and bellied out the sails and streamed the lines of bank behind.

A fort bateau, up-bound to the falls for pa.s.sengers. h.e.l.lo and goodbye, and we're all right and how far yet to go? Emptiness afterwards, a greater loneliness, the loneliness of water, wind and mountains, of all the might of earth against three flimsy boats.

The touch of lostness, the touch of sorrow, the inward asking if gentler sh.o.r.es would come, the thought of d.i.c.k, called backward by some whisper in his mind.

But, under all, the waiting flush, the singing of the blood when hills would roll away, and real and fair to sight would come the hard-held dream. This time was short. These wind and mountain troubles were the last. Around the turn! Beyond the quiet stretch!

Hardships, sorrows, partings? But the heart still ready to beat high? Without troubles, Evans thought, rejoicing would be a puny thing, with no roots in the soil of life. How much would he prize Brownie if he hadn't lost another child? How much would he like Oregon except for sweat and grief along the way? Grief bowed the heart but made it richer, so that joy was rich. Some night on the banks of the Willamette he'd hear Rock's throaty growl and would like Oregon the more. Some night he'd see Tod Fairman and his swollen leg. Sometime he'd bend again and find in pigeon eyes the kinship to himself. In some remembering silence he'd hear d.i.c.k Summers say, "Take it easy, hoss!"

He held tight as the mountains fell away. He said not yet, not yet, while in his gaze a softer country swam. Not yet, not yet, and then ahead, beyond a gra.s.s-green prairie, mellow in the sun, the lines of Fort Vancouver with a great ship standing by! Across from it, unseen in the wooded flow of land, the waters of Willamette!

Once, long ago, he had come to the Platte and felt greatness. He had reached the Columbia and shuddered to the flowering hope. And now he looked on home. A tide rose in him, so fierce, so bursting in the breast, so close to women's tears, that he feared to meet the others' eyes. Yonder it was, yonder was home, yonder the rich soil waiting for the plow, waiting for the work of hands, for the happy cries of children. They'd made it. They had rolled the miles. And back of them came others. Crossers of plains. Grinders through the dust. Climbers of mountains. Forders of rivers. Meeters of dangers. Sailors at last of the big waters. Nation makers. Builders of the country.

He let himself look around and saw the Byrds' and Fairmans' boats lapping close behind and, on his own, Brownie idle with his sweep and Becky with the home-gleam in her eye and Mercy sitting by her. Mercy who, Rebecca said, was going to have a child. Sweet Mercy who would bring a baby to the house. Blood of his blood, Evans thought. Blood of his blood once removed.

He winked at his woman and spoke loud above the tremble in his throat. "Becky," he said, "hurrah for Oregon!"