This is tasty sample of the latest book, tenatively titled “To Truckee’s Trail”, the one for which I have a complete proposal all ready. The select few who have seen the story so far are fascinated, and I myself think it could be very, very big… could it be “Gone With the Wind” big, or “Harry Potter” big? Let’s see if the blogosphere can make it so…
\nI want to be able to sit at home and write the rest of it, I am deeply interested in the people I am writing about, enthralled by the process of working out how they pulled off their very daring adventure. I have had enough experience as an amateur “unknown” to know that just sending the proposal off to a handy selection of publishers listed in the Writers’ Guide is a waste of time and postage. Been there, did that, have a large collection of impersonal rejection slips that gave no indication that my submission envelope had even been opened.<\/p>\n
I am posting this to show it off, and to get a serious publisher interested. I am bouyed by optimism, and the knowlege that big money has been paid for stuff that IMO is much, much worse than this. (Oh, and I have copyright protection for this. I did not spend three years working for an intellectual property firm for nothing.)<\/p>\n
From Chapter 11, “To Truckee’s Trail”. <\/p>\n
From Dr. Townsend\u2019s Journal: \u201c14th November, 1844 In the wilderness at the fork of Truckee\u2019s River. This day, I can scarce put pen to paper, being distract\u2019d with grief and worry. Our party is split yet again, this again being of our own decision. My own Dearest Darling is gone ahead with five others, judged fit and sound, and without the care of little ones to attend. Yesterday, our labors brought us to where a tributary came down from the mountains, athwart our path, and leading to the south\u2026We made camp in late afternoon, and Captain Stephens called a meeting\u2026.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWe can\u2019t take the wagons much farther,\u201d said Young Martin flatly, as if daring anyone to argue with him. \u201cUnless we follow the west tributary.\u201d He dropped down onto an upturned cask that he was using as a stool, and wincingly pulled off his waterlogged boots. He peeled off his socks, which were also soaked. His glance was drawn finally, as it always would be, to his own Liz, her hair silver-gilt in the firelight, wrapped in two shawls and the buffalo robe that Old Man Hitchcock had traded for her at Fort Laramie, from the tribes. Sitting on another wagon-bench, she had Sadie in her lap, Nancy and Eddie leaning confidingly against her, under the shelter of that buffalo robe. Poor Liz, she had never been any shakes as a cook, had never even had to be, let alone over a campfire. But to do her fair, she tried her best, at a cost of some burnt fingers, scorching her own apron, and upsetting a pot a beans and near to putting the fire out, whereupon Isabella spoke out in tones of mixed exasperation and affection, somewhere back along the trail when the three families had begun to share a campfire. Elizabeth would do them all favors if she could but stay away from the fire and the hot kettles; chop the vegetables, if she would be so kind, and read to the children, give them lessons and keep them out from underfoot. In that mysterious way she had, of seeming to know when he was gazing at her, her eyes lifted from the book and met his for a smiling moment, quiet communion among the crowd around the campfire. He was here, she was there, and yet they were alone together. And then she went on reading to the children, and he was supposed to be also paying attention to the needs of others in the party. \u201c\u2026 tonight, after we\u2019ve supped,\u201d \u201cSupper\u2019s ready,\u201d said Isabella abruptly. \u201cThe table is set\u2026 that is, if we had a table.\u201d The wagon-owners settled themselves in the first circle around the fire: Stephens and Greenwood, Isabella and her father, Allan, Martin Murphy and his sons, and James Miller, John Sullivan and Patrick Martin. Wives, and older children, brothers, and the hired men filled in the spaces, and spilled over to a second circle, and stood in the gaps behind benches and chairs brought out from the wagons. Coming to the confluence of waters meant a very real decision about what route to take now, a decision with nearly unbearable consequences, now that snow had been falling for weeks. No wonder Old Martin looked particularly worn, and cosseted his grandchildren. Fully half the party was his blood kin, and he the person most responsible for bringing them here, too. <\/p>\n \u201cAye, we must send for assistance, while we can, \u201cOld Martin agreed. Like Isabella, he would not countenance abandoning the wagons; consensus regarding taking the slightly more open but possibly longer route along the creek was complete. \u201cAnd how many shall we send? And who can we spare, when we\u2019ll need every strong man to move the wagons, hey?\u201d \u201cAnd we will not fail, \u201cElizabeth whispered, when they lay tucked together in their bedroll of blankets and quilts, and the trusty buffalo robe, all spread out on top of the platform of boxes and flat-topped trunks in their wagon. The drawstrings and flaps were drawn tight against the cold, and a kettle of coals taken from the fire lent an illusion of warmth to the tiny, canvas-walled room. A pair of flat stones heated in the fire, wrapped in a blanket and tucked in the bottom of their bed produced a slightly more convincing degree of warmth, together with the warmth of each other, curled into each other, spoon-fashioned. Around and outside this fragile shelter, came the quiet, near-to sleep voices of Isabella\u2019s children, Allan Montgomery\u2019s irritated voice, raised and quickly hushed, a quiet crunch of regular footsteps in new snow, the horses pawing the frozen ground, searching for more of the thin dried grass. Under it all, a nearly-imperceptible yet menacing rustle, the constant sound of more snow falling, brushing the canvas and pine branches; fat flakes like feathers, like falling leaves. This is tasty sample of the latest book, tenatively titled “To Truckee’s Trail”, the one for which I have a complete proposal all ready. The select few who have seen the story so far are fascinated, and I myself think it could be very, very big… could it be “Gone With the Wind” big, or […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":14,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,4,1,30,75],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5625","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-aint-that-america","category-domestic","category-general","category-history","category-literary-good-stuff"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5625","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/14"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5625"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5625\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5625"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5625"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ncobrief.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5625"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\u201cOut of our way,\u201d murmured Old Man Hitchcock, looking into the fire, past his eternal whittling, and the knife-blade. \u201cThe long way around.\u201d
\n\u201cThe long way around, may prove the shortest, \u201csaid Stephens gently. \u201cWe done well before, always heading straight west. At the Green, and again from the Sink. I\u2019ll wait to hear what Isaac says.\u201d He sat a little way back from the fire on a half-rotted fallen log, Dog at his feet. Her great fawn and black head lay on her forepaws, golden eyes going back and forth as if she was paying intelligent attention to the conversation. The fire was the smallest of the three outside the circle of wagons and tents, set up on the lee side a barrier against the icy breeze roaring down from the high mountains, and the cold that came at sundown, the cold that was most particularly felt when the exertions of the day were over. Allen Montgomery, and the Murphy brothers, Jamie, Daniel, Bernard and Johnny hunkered around the fire. It had the air of an informal meeting of the men, while the women cooked a sparse, but much anticipated meal. The horses and Hitchcocks\u2019 precious two mules were close-picketed for the night, just on the other side of the wagons, inside the circle jostling each other for mouthfuls of tall dry grass bristling up from the day\u2019s accumulation of snow and armfuls of green rushes cut from the riverbank by the women and older children,. Around that fragile shelter of canvas, brush and fires, the snow was trampled to a muddy slush. At other fires, Isabella and Sarah, and the Murphy women moved in an intricate ballet, skirts, shawls and sleeves carefully held back from the fire, as they cooked the evening meal: stew and cornbread that tasted like sawdust with no butter to spread richly on it, dried apples stewed with a little spice Even Isabella\u2019s milk cow had gone dry, months since. Mary-Bee Murphy sat with Mary Miller on a wagon-bench, dandling the baby Ellen, while her sons and Willie Miller and their cousin Mary leaned on Old Martin\u2019s knees, or sat bundled in shawls at his feet as he told them another endless story about miracles, and goblins and old heroes of Erin. It was hard to judge by a casual looking, John thought, of how far along Mary-Bee was, all bundled in shawls as she was, but she still walked lightly. She was not far enough gone in pregnancy to be awkward, but she tired easily.<\/p>\n
\nThey had all become a tribe, John realized, a tribe of nomads as like to any of the Indians, bound together, sharing hardship alike with those moments in the evening, those rare moments of rest. Across the trampled circle, Moses and Dennis Martin stepped out of the darkness between two wagons, each with an armload of firewood. They piled their burden roughly beside the largest of the fires, and a storm bright burst of sparks flew up like fireflies meeting the stars overhead.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA meeting?\u201d John was startled back from his nearly simultaneous contemplation of his own dear Liz, and of Young Martin\u2019s left foot, dead white, nearly bloodless, propped up on his knee. \u201cPardon\u2026I was lost, considering this interesting combination of foot-rot and frostbite. Dry socks, Martin, dry socks and liniment. And contemplate sealing your boots with tallow and paraffin\u2026 other than that, consider staying out of the water, as much as you can\u2026\u201d
\nThere was a dry laugh, shared around the circle around fire. In the last three weeks, they had been forced into the river-bed time and time again, as it provided the easiest, and on occasion, the only passage for the wagons.
\n\u201cWe must consider what we should do now,\u201d \u201cStephens said. \u201cWe might send a party ahead, along the south branch\u2026\u201d He fell silent, as Mary-Bee Murphy came with a basin and a steaming kettle and Isabella, bearing a dry cloth and her box of medicinal salts.
\n\u201cDoctor, tell him to soak in this for a bit, and dry them carefully. We\u2019ll bring a set of dry stockings, presently, and dry his boots beside the fire.\u201d
\n\u201cMrs. Patterson, you are a tonic, \u201cExtravagantly, John caught her hand, and took it to his lips.\u201dAnd an excellent nurse; I shall see that the patient follows your advice to the letter.\u201d
\nIsabella gave him a very severe look, as Mary-Bee awkwardly set down the basin and filled it with steaming water. Isabella added salts, and gathered up the socks and the sodden boots. Mary-Bee looked as if she would say something more, but she merely patted her husband\u2019s shoulder and followed in Isabella\u2019s wake.
\n\u201cSee that he does then, Doctor Townsend, see that he does.\u201d Isabella shot, over her shoulder. When she was gone back to the cook-fire and out of hearing, Stephens remarked,
\n\u201cA good woman is above the price of rubies.\u201d
\n\u201cI long to meet the man who would play Petruchio to her Kate,\u201d John said, just as Greenwood appeared as silently as a ghost in the circle of firelight, shadowed by Britt, and heralded only by the scent of tobacco smoke. Stephens grinned, a flash of teeth in his whiskered face. \u201cNearly as much as I\u2019d like to be warm again, and over those pestilential mountains; he must be a formidable man\u2026 I imagine a very Ajax.\u201d
\n\u201cNot so,\u201d said Hitchcock seriously. \u201cM\u2019son-in-law\u2019s a very mild-tempered man. Never has much to say for hisself.\u201d
\n\u201cMarried to her, who\u2019d wonder?\u201d ungallantly ventured Bernard Murphy sotto voice, as Greenwood sank onto his heels, and held his hands to the fire, looking every day of his four-score. Britt took up a seat next to Stephens on the log, and casually gentled Dog\u2019s alertly-raised head. She lay down again, with an inaudible \u201cwoof\u201d.
\nStephens merely lifted his brows, and Greenwood sighed;
\n\u201cNot so good for wagons, Cap\u2019n. Not \u2018less you had a month of good weather and a hundred strong men and them with an ax in either hand. Horses? Yeah, easy enough. We blazed it, two, three miles, far as we could, \u2018fore sunset. Horses and pack-mules. It looks right promising, otherwise\u2026 but I\u2019ve always said if you want to be over these mountains by Winterset, you\u2019ll have to leave all your traps and ride hard.\u201d
\n\u201cNo.\u201d It was Isabella\u2019s voice. She had returned unobtrusively to the fire-circle, joining the men, as was her right as a wagon-owner and the head of a family. \u201dWe cannot just leave our traps, as you say. We have chosen out all the most valuable and useful of goods, and brought them all this way; we cannot just drop them by the wayside as things of no consequence. \u201d
\nGreenwood shrugged. \u201cThey\u2019re only things. You can get back things, or something like them.\u201d
\n\u201cThings?! Things, as you say, but they are our things! We considered them very carefully; these are things that are not only valuable to us, but things that we need! They are not frivolous possessions, but necessary tools to earning our livelihoods\u2026 without those \u201cthings\u201d we should be beggars, dependant upon charity.\u201d Her keen hawk-glance went round the circle of faces, and John thought of his books, the case of surgical instruments\u2026 Liz\u2019 precious china tea set, that came from her grandmother, whose family had brought it from Germany and cherished through generations.
\n\u201cAnd what about the children? Can they ride hard? Can Mary Miller ride, with a baby at breast, or Mary-Bee Murphy, so close to term? The wagon is our shelter, our home! I\u2019ll not be a beggar, I\u2019ll not be destitute. What if any of us fall sick, though lack of shelter? What do you say, Doctor? How many of us would be fit to leave all behind and ride hard?\u201d Her hard, inimical hawk-glance pinned him, challenged him to speak, to venture his opinion.
\n\u201cThe very youngest or those of a weak constitution could not endure very long in such conditions as this without shelter, \u201cJohn stammered. As many times as he had talked this over with Elizabeth in the privacy of their bed, be was still stuck on the two-horned dilemma, having never come to any conclusion in his own mind, \u201cNor the very old\u2026\u201d Old Hitchcock snorted derisively at this, and would have said more but for his daughter\u2019s fierce gaze swinging around towards him. \u201cThe wagons\u2026 they are at least of some shelter. I would not choose to leave them.\u201d
\n\u201cI do not think we could carry enough food and blankets and tents on our backs for the weeks of traveling we still must endure\u2026 not if we had to carry the weakest of us, \u201c Stephens sighed, lines of weariness and responsibility harshly grooving his features in the firelight. \u201cOur supplies diminish every day that we spend, this side of the mountains\u2026 I know that my own do, so I assume the same of you all. Old Man, how far do you think we might be from Sutter\u2019s Fort?\u201d
\n\u201cI do not know for sure, \u201cGreenwood said, bluntly. \u201cMaybe a week\u2019s journey on a good horse to the summit, maybe longer. Sutter\u2019s place is down in the flatland, on the river, a good piece from the mountains on the other side.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat sort of man is he? If we sent for aid for ourselves, would he send it?\u201d
\n\u201cAye, he would. I know nothing of him at first hand, though. But he is accounted to be generous, and he has ambitions.\u201d
\n\u201cAs do most men\u2026 I\u2019ve a hankering to know what he has ambitions for\u2026\u201d Stephens stood, wearily and stretched, \u201cDoctor, I\u2019d like to call a meeting\u2026 not now, after we\u2019ve all supped. Not just the wagon-owners. Everybody. Tell them it\u2019s to consider sending out a small party ahead. He saluted Isabella with a touch to his hat-brim, \u201cPardon, all. I shall check on the stock. No, \u201che added as Greenwood looked to get to his feet. \u201cYou\u2019ve earned some rest, Old Man. \u201d Dog\u2019s eyes had snapped open as soon as Stephens moved, and now she lurched to her feet and padded after him into the darkness outside the firelight. John sighed; he was wearied to his very bones, how Greenwood must feel after his long scout today, he could only imagine. The old man must be made of iron and buffalo sinews, to have endured this kind of odyssey for years.<\/p>\n
\nJohn stood, and bowed, elaborately offering her his arm,
\n\u201cMy dear Mrs. Patterson, may I then escort you to\u2026 our lack of table and our evening repast?\u201d
\nIsabella nodded, regally, her lips twitching with her effort not to laugh.
\n\u201cHow very kind of you, my dear Doctor.\u201d She took his arm with a flourish, and they moved with elaborate gentility across the trampled mud to their own fire, where Elizabeth watched them, laughing, while the children stared in baffled astonishment.
\n\u201cLa, Mrs. Patterson, I fear you are flirting with my own husband!\u201d she said, while Isabella dissolved into hearty and infectious giggles.
\n\u201cMy dearest, I am wounded at the heart!\u201d John slapped his chest theatrically, \u201cHow could I consider being unfaithful to you, even in thought!\u201d He sank onto the bench next to her, as the children had sprung up to help Isabella pass out tin plates. He added in a low voice, \u201cAlthough I confess, Darling Dearest, I now can see how Mr. Patterson\u2019s affections might have been drawn towards our own Kate.\u201d
\n\u201cBecause she is altogether splendid, \u201cElizabeth replied, \u201cBut too many men are fools. A pretty face and a kind regard is all that is necessary for their attentions. A strong mind and a stout heart are not obviously apparent.\u201d
\n\u201cI am properly rebuked,\u201d John said, and they sat together in perfect companionship under the buffalo robe, while Sadie brought around the tin plates and her brother a pan of cornbread. Isabella carried an iron Dutch oven, from which the most savory scents emanated. She carefully doled out a ladle and a half to each. Across the fire, John noticed that Allen and Sarah sat next to each other, but separate. Elizabeth followed his gaze, and intuited his thoughts, perfectly.
\n\u201cThey are not happy, Dearest Darling. I doubt they will ever be. They married in haste, thinking they would come to love each other\u2026 but I cannot think how that will happen, under the trials of such a journey as this.\u201d
\n\u201cPerhaps when we get to California\u2026\u201d John ventured, \u201cIt may yet work out\u2026.\u201d He took a mouthful of the stew. \u201cOh, this is truly succulent fare\u2026 or am I just amazingly hungry?\u201d
\nElizabeth twinkled at him.
\n\u201cIt is a most Luccellian feast, is it not?\u201d
\n\u201cThis cannot be a potato, surely? I thought we had eaten the last of the potatoes months ago\u2026 Murphy made such an event of it; I made a note in the trail diary.\u201d
\n\u201cNo, \u201cElizabeth replied, serenely. \u201cThose things that taste somewhat potato-like are roots of water-reeds. The Indians eat them, even dry and grind a sort of flour out of them or so Mr. Hitchcock says. And we found stands of wild onions when we first came up into the mountains. Truly, this wilderness is a garden if you know where to look.\u201d
\n\u201cAh, well\u2026 \u201cJohn looked with new interest into the contents of his tin plate. \u201cWe are well served, and well fed, Darling Dearest. I could not ask for better companions in all the world.\u201d
\n\u201cSo\u2026\u201d Elizabeth ate with renewed interest, \u201cWhat does Mr. Stephens think we should do next?\u201d
\n\u201cHe wants to hold a meeting.\u201d John replied, \u201cI think he wants to send an advance party, following the creek towards the south, whilst we move the wagons west along the main body. We cannot spare too many men, or horses, though. But at least, they could bring fresh supplies and teams from Sutter\u2019s.\u201d
\n\u201cWho will he send?\u201d Elizabeth looked around the camp. \u201cWho can be spared? Who can be asked to leave their families behind?\u201d John followed her gaze. Across the fire, Moses and Allen laughed together. Sarah\u2019s back was to her husband; she talked quietly with Isabella, who seemed to be listening with half an ear while she supervised the children. A tiny line worry-line appeared between Elizabeth\u2019s level brows.
\n\u201cHe\u2019ll ask for volunteers, first.\u201d
\n\u201cMoses will ask, I am sure of it.\u201d
\n\u201cDarling Dear, he is not a child any more. He is a man, or close enough to it. And we will talk it all over tonight after we have supped.\u201d Elizabeth\u2019s merry mood seemed to have fled, though, and they ate in companionable silence, until they could see that other men were drifting to Stephens\u2019s campfire, carrying benches and stools; Old Martin Murphy and his sons and James Miller, Patrick Martin and his boys, young Sullivan, and the various drovers. Sarah and Elizabeth hastily scoured the plates clean, and followed Isabella. John clambered up into the wagon for his little writing-case; he had a sense that he ought to be taking the minutes.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo more than six, \u201cGreenwood replied. \u201cStrong riders, with little gear and just enough food. Eight of the horses are in fair condition, still— six to ride, two for spares and packs.\u201d He cleared his throat and spat thoughtfully into the fire. He seemed almost to hesitate before saying more. \u201cWhoever they be, \u2018twill be six less on the foodstuff left to the main party. And they need not all be men, either.\u201d
\nThat was a notion to cause an intake of breath around the fire, and a sudden, thoughtful silence. Old Martin was the first to break it.
\n\u201cI\u2019d not countenance asking a mother or a father yet, to leave children behind in a place such as this\u2026 no, no, never, \u2018tis an unnatural thing you would be asking. Not even the heathen savages would ask such.\u201d
\n\u201cNo,\u201d Agreed Old Man Greenwood, \u201cBut among the tribes, women without children commonly ride with the hunting parties. They do the butchering and dressing out, and cooking and all.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat a wonderful time they must have, doing all the work of it!\u201d Sarah said, in a voice that carried just far enough, and there was a rustle of wry laughter from the women on the edge of the campfire.
\n\u201cSo how do we choose the six; should we draw lots from among those of age, young, fit and without children?\u201d
\n\u201cAye,\u201d agreed Old Martin readily, \u201cBut it is in my mind; we should first pledge to assist the families of those chosen, in whatever they may require. Our needs might leave them short of a provider, and ready hands.\u201d
\n\u201cSo\u2026 are we agreed on that, then? To draw lots for a place and to see to the needs of any family left short.\u201d Stephens\u2019 ugly, lined face appeared more than usually like a grim, fire-gilded gargoyle, looking around the circle. \u201cWe are agreed then? Are there any exceptions?\u201d
\n\u201cNone but you, Captain\u2026and the Doctor. You are more needed here with us.\u201d
\n\u201cI had no intent of leaving this company, until we are all safe,\u201d replied Stephens, dourly. \u201cNor does Doctor Townsend; so, how many will draw?\u201d He leant down and began pulling stems of dried grass from the brown tufts which were still un-trampled around his log seat.\u201d
\nThe quiet murmurs ran around the campfire, quickly tallying names; Alan and Sarah, Greenwood\u2019s two sons, and Stephens\u2019 young drover, Tom Flombeau, Oliver Patterson, old Martin\u2019s youngest children, Daniel, Bernard and Johnny, and their sister Helen. The four drovers, Edmund Bray, Vincent Calvin, Matthew Harbin, Oliver Magnent, and Francis, John\u2019s own hired man. Joseph Foster, and Moses\u2019 close friends, Dennis and Patrick Martin. Not the Sullivans, though, after some discussion, since John and Mary had the care of their younger brothers. But that left Moses himself\u2026 and his Elizabeth. John\u2019s heart seemed to turn over in his chest; all of them, fit and strong and young, and childless, twenty of them, nearly a half of the party. Stephens cut twenty straws, and then cut six of them in half. He set them in his palm so they were all level, and then closed his fist. He held out that fist towards Allan Montgomery first, then Britt and John Greenwood. Allan and John Greenwood drew long straws, and so did Britt. Moses also drew a long straw. His disappointment was obvious, but John hoped that his own relief was not. The hired men drew in a body: the Irish drover boys and Stephens\u2019s drover lad, the dark Louisiana French boy whose name was such a tongue-twister, all drew long straws, but Oliver Magnent, and Francis Deland both drew short. Joseph Foster stepped forward to draw: another long.
\n\u201cAch, another two months of this!\u201d he said, in good-humored disappointment. \u201cAnd all on short rations, too!\u201d
\n\u201cDaniel\u2026 Johnny, ye and Bernard step forrard\u2026 and where\u2019s Helen?\u201d Old Martin chided his three youngest into the circle and looked on with a deathly countenance, when Helen, Johnny and Daniel all drew short straws. Oliver Patterson stepped forward into the firelight to draw, and Stephens looked at him with a particularly severe and interrogatory frown.
\n\u201cBoy, are you of age for this venture?\u201d and Oliver blushed deep red as Isabella said, white-lipped.
\n\u201cHe will be eighteen in three months.\u201d
\nOliver drew a long straw though, leaving a pair of wispy straws in Stephens\u2019 fist; Sarah and Elizabeth stepped forward, and John\u2019s heart felt like was turning over entirely within his chest. Sarah drew a long straw, and could not hide the disappointment on her face. And Elizabeth then took forth the last of the straws from Stephens\u2019 hand: a short straw for the horse party.
\nElizabeth, not Moses; John was shaken down to the soul. Old Martin looked hardly better. Stephens let the murmurings of excitement and sympathy die down and quietly said,
\n\u201cDoctor, take down their names into the trail journal\u2026 I\u2019ll want to talk to them, all together. They must leave in the morning, as soon as we are ready.\u201d He spoke a little louder, to the gathering at large. \u201cThank-ee all, sitting out in the cold for this. It\u2019s only trail business we had to settle tonight.\u201d Taking their cue, the women began chivvying away the children who already had not been settled to bed. The younger men and the families of those who had not been chosen drifted away from Stephens\u2019 campfire in their wake; after such a day of travel, a warm bedroll had a powerful and irresistible allure. As the evening meeting broke apart, Greenwood thoughtfully sized up the six chosen.
\n\u201cYou were well-guided, Cap\u2019n\u2026 they are well-suited. Among the women, Mrs. Townsend has the best seat, and little Helen is young and strong. It is good that her brothers are among them, they are both good hands with the beasts, and fearless about venturing into wilderness. Magnent and Deland are good shots, and as trail-wise as they come, besides being used to the cold and the snow\u2026\u201d
\n\u201cFor myself, I am glad Mrs. Townsend is amongst them.\u201d John said. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. \u201cThe cold and the hardships are so extreme, I fear for her, under these circumstances, and welcome any means for her to escape farther exposure.\u201d
\n\u201cAye, it may be best at that.\u201d Old Greenwood sighed, grimly. \u201cWould that I could urge all to travel so light, and escape these mountains. At least, they will be six less appetites upon the supplies we have left.\u201d
\nOld Martin and his children, Elizabeth and the two French lads, all of the chosen lingered by the fire as they were bidden. In the firelight, Elizabeth looked as young as they; all of them so eager, fired by the prospect of adventure, just as they all had been six months ago at Council Bluffs, when the grass was lush and deep, escaping the drudgery of a mundane existence. Now they looked fair to escape another one, of everlasting cold, and the brutal labor of moving the wagons another mile or so farther up the river, the river whose jaws were closing in on them like a trap. Stephens looked at them, and smiled, wryly,
\n\u201cNo great words\u2026 wish I did. Ride hard. Look after each other and the horses. Get to Sutters\u2019 place and bring back help.\u201d
\n\u201cWe shall!\u201d Elizabeth\u2019s chin lifted, and her eyes were fired with determination. \u201cWe are leaving our kin and dearest ones, and our friends, knowing that their very salvation depends on us. Depend on us, Captain Stephens, we will not fail.\u201d
\nAnd even if Old Greenwood seemed to hide a half-cynical smile, the others; Helen and her brothers, the two Frenchmen, all shared the same look of bright dedication. They could not fail; they would throw themselves at the high mountains, the rocks and rivers and the ice, they would win through it all, they would come through, rescue their families, and John\u2019s heart felt as if it would burst with a combination of pride and dread.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI wish\u2026\u201d said John, into her hair, hugging her dear and familiar self into the shelter of his own body, \u201c\u2026I wish that we\u2026\u201d
\n\u201cHad not taken this journey?\u201d Elizabeth picked up the thread of his thoughts as expertly as she had always done. \u201cDearest Darling, never wish that. No, never. For I am glad that we have, even if this would be the last night we spend in each others\u2019 arms\u2026 and it will not be, \u201cshe added firmly, and took his hand in hers, and held it first to her lips, and then her cheek. After a moment, she continued, thoughtfully. \u201cI almost feel as if my life before we started this journey was lived in shadows, a sort of half-life, and then I came out into bright sunshine. Did not we decide upon this great adventure partly because of my own health? And now I am in good heath, and have shared your life in a way that I never could before\u2026 in our present emergency, I am accounted strong enough to be given a great task, a responsibility? There should be no greater reward, I do not ask for any such. My Dearest Darling, there is nothing to regret\u2026 I love you all the more for having made this possible. Have no fear for me\u2026 I will be safe, and we will not fail.\u201d
\n\u201cI pray that shall be so, \u201c John tightened his arms around her, at once wishing for this night with Elizabeth never to end, full knowing it would be the last they would spend together for months, and yet wishing that it were tomorrow already, and the agony of parting already over. He was torn between pride in her courage, and worry for her that shook him down to his bones. \u201cWe should go to sleep, Dearest Darling, you\u2019ll need as much rest tonight as possible.\u201d
\n\u201cMmmm. Don\u2019t stay awake yourself, watching over me, \u201cElizabeth said, teasingly, but John did try to fight off slumber for a while, until sleep claimed them both. And then too soon it was dark morning, and snow still falling, and he was standing, wretchedly tongue-tied in front of people, for once. He had promised Elizabeth, back in the desert, that he should not have to go on a long scout again, and be separated from her. And now, ironically, she was riding on a long scout, leaving him to plod behind. \u201cPromise me rather, that wherever one of us will go, the other will follow after in a little while,\u201d she had said, and so he would be following after, but it was bitter, bitter. Moses and he had saddled Beau, had rolled up the buffalo robe and two or three blankets around a pitiful bag of dried meats and hard-tack, and a little ground coffee and strapped them behind her saddle. Isabella and Sarah had fussed over what to send with her, just as the Murphy women had fussed over Helen, Johnny and Daniel. Old Martin had tears rolling down his cheeks as he gave his youngest daughter a boost into the saddle. Daniel\u2019s paint pony danced impatiently, crunching the fresh-fallen snow underfoot; the lads were eager to be away.
\n\u201cDearest Darling, I must go now.\u201d She leaned down from the saddle, and brushed his cheek with her lips, and then she was gone, following the rest of the mounted party. They were veiled in falling slow before they reached the first bend and were lost to sight, but he was almost sure she turned in the saddle and lifted her hand in one last farewell.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"