turned the knobs on his banjo and picked out a tune.
* * *
ZACHARY Willis rode ahead all day and slept out in the open. He did his share of the work and more, and as grass became scarcer, they relied on him to scout it out. When the other men’s hair grew long, they asked the women to cut it, but he didn’t bother. From the back, he might have been an Indian.
Hannah Spruill turned sixteen. A long-legged tomboy when they’d started, she had grown womanly. Laughing, she twined daisies into a chain and slipped it over Zachary’s head. Ten years older, he protested but gave her a smile.
They made Fort Bridger and forged northwest into the Idaho territory, pausing at hot springs, where the burning water tasted like metal and did not slake thirst. Nearly everyone contracted a miserable fever, with sore throat and aching muscles. When Kate felt better, she craved sausage and fried apples, but there weren’t any. The gristly ox meat had spoiled. They picked worms out of their bacon and rationed the rice, beans, and hardtack.
Kate and Martin no longer sought each other out for lovemaking. She felt too filthy and tired, and Martin fell asleep without reaching for her. What might be going on in the other wagons was a mystery. She felt empty inside, as if she’d been in the Rocky Mountains forever.
The oxen struggled up the steep, stony paths. Mr. Spruill complained of stomachache. As it worsened, his moans reached every ear. When night fell, Kate took a lantern to the Spruills’ wagon and offered to sit up with him. Mrs. Spruill burrowed into the wagon and soon was snoring. Hannah and Zachary joined Kate, Hannah’s eyes huge with fear, and they kept vigil through the night. Kate listened to Hannah tell Zachary about the food she would cook when they reached Oregon.
“Blueberry muffins,” Hannah said. “Would you like that?”
“I sure would,” Zachary said.
“I can make chicken pie. Ma taught me. Do you like chicken pie?”
“I sure do.”
In the morning, Mr. Spruill was well enough to sit up and drink tea, and they gave him the last of the sugar. In a stretch of well-watered country, Martin shot an antelope, and the fresh meat heartened them. As if drawn by the savory smell, a group of Iowans appeared, and Kate’s party offered to share. The guests contributed dried pears and cherry wine, and the food was passed from hand to hand in a welcome respite. They camped together that night. In the morning, the Iowans pushed off early. Some fear nagged at Kate, a sense her group had taken a risk, but the visitors had looked healthy, even robust, without contagion or infirmity.
Soon they would reach Fort Hall, the junction with the California Trail, where the Edmistons would leave them. Kate looked into her heart and asked herself if she could stop loving James. He was a mirage, like clouds that promised rain but were only dust.
When they stopped at noon, Olivia summoned Kate and Mrs. Spruill.
“Susan’s baby is coming,” Olivia said.
Susan labored for eighteen hours, until, just before daybreak, she delivered a little boy. Mrs. Spruill washed and swaddled him.
“Someday,” Olivia said, “we’ll tell him he was born on the Oregon Trail.”
Kate felt as tired as if she’d had a baby herself.
“I’ll go find James and tell him he has a son,” she said, but a pain in her stomach drove her to her knees.
It was cholera. For days, she lay delirious, barely aware of others offering water, her fever dreams haunted by the jolly supper with strangers. She must have drunk the water, because she began to revive. Recovery brought bitter revelations. Mr. Spruill, Hannah, and Susan’s infant had all died. Martin was sick. Kate held a cup of water to his lips and waited a long moment before he opened his eyes and drank. She kissed his forehead and thanked God it was cool.
Andrew, James, and Zachary buried the dead. They weren’t strong enough to dig deep graves, so they hacked into the trail. Wheels would pack the earth and keep animals from digging up the bodies. They left no markers, not even rocks.
* * *
THERE was no remedy for the time they had lost except to push on. Everyone had lost weight, and their clothes hung off them, but no one looked worse than James and Susan. His eyes were sunken, her face was puffy, and her breasts leaked pitifully through her dress.
Billy Spruill shot three jackrabbits, so there was a good meal for the first time in days. The Edmistons sat apart from the others, with their own fire. Since the baby’s death, they had kept to themselves.
Olivia set down her tin plate. “Andrew and I are going with James and Susan,” she said.
Kate stared at her. “To California?”
“Yes.”
“But we’ve got to stick together.”
“Come with us,” Olivia said.
“We’ll take the Hudspeth Cutoff,” Andrew said. “It’s the fastest way.”
“What are you talking about?” Martin said. “We’ve said Oregon all along.”
“We changed our minds,” Andrew said. “After harvest-time, I’ll do a little prospecting.”
For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Kate couldn’t swallow.
“I don’t hear much good about the Hudspeth,” Martin said.
“Won’t be worse than what we been through,” Andrew said.
“You’ll have to go over high mountains, and there’s not much water.”
“We’ll take it quick.” Andrew dug into his stew. “What about y’all?” he asked Mrs. Spruill and Zachary.
“I ain’t changing horses in the middle of the race,” Mrs. Spruill said.
“I either,” Zachary’s first words since Hannah’s burial.
Andrew shrugged. I’m sorry I married him, Olivia had said before they started. Kate grabbed her hand.
“Let him go,” she whispered. “Let them all go. Stay with us.”
“I’d worry too much.” Olivia looked toward the Edmistons, slumped at their fire.
“You’d pick them over your own flesh and blood?”
“You’ll be fine, but they might not be. I want to go.”
Kate jumped to her feet and stormed over to the Edmistons. Startled, their heads snapped up, their eyes shiny in the smoky light, and Susan flung out her hands, reading Kate’s face.
“We didn’t do anything,” Susan said. “It’s up to them.”
“You played on her sympathies,” Kate said.
Martin was right behind her. “Now is not the time to be splitting up. Come with us, and go to California later.”
“We
