CHAPTER TWO

Race Across the Continent

A rough hand jostled Adam’s shoulder.  “Wake up, boy,” the driver urged.  “Breakfast stop—and a good one.”

Adam threw back the buffalo robe.  Yawning, he stepped down from the coach and blinked at the number of buildings visible, even in the pale light of early dawn.  “Salt Lake City?” he queried, for he could imagine no other town of this size between him and the Mississippi River.

“Yup,” offered the driver.  “If you’ve a mind to sample Mormon cooking, come along with me.”

With a grin, for he’d been sampling Mormon cooking—some good, some bad—here and there all along the route, Adam followed the driver onto a verandah between two painted pillars.  By the look of the two-story Salt Lake House, as a sign swinging on a tall flagstaff outside declared its name, this was going to be one of the good ones.  Looks could be deceiving, as Adam had learned at Deep Creek Station, but he had a feeling that this time what he saw was what he’d get.  Besides, he had the driver’s word that the food was good here, and so far none of the men holding the reins had steered him wrong.

Looks were deceiving, but only in the sense that the meal was even better than the external neatness of the Salt Lake House had led him to hope.  Adam feasted on a hearty breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs, fried potatoes and flapjacks, topped with a compote of peaches and strawberries, both grown locally.

When the driver, a speedy eater, polished off his plate and stood to leave, Adam automatically, though reluctantly, did, as well.  “No, no, boy,” the man laughed.  “Stage don’t leave for an hour, so take your time.  I’m off for home.  Now, don’t fret yourself none; I’ll tell the next driver not to leave without you.  Heard you say how important it was for you to ride straight through.”

“Thanks,” Adam said and sat down again.  He didn’t dally over the meal, though, choosing, instead, to spend the extra time stretching his legs and getting a look at the city.  He and Pa hadn’t come this way on their journey west, and while he’d heard a lot about the Mormon headquarters, he’d never seen it.

He didn’t see much of it this morning, either, as he feared getting too far from the depot.  Still, what he did see of the quiet, early morning streets left a favorable impression.  Most of the houses were small, though some stretched two or even three stories into the sky, and most were constructed of white, sun-dried bricks, red sandstone or granite.  The doorposts and sills were either of red sandstone or wood, painted a vivid green, and green creepers cascaded over the walls.  The streets were uniform and laid out at right angles, with an irrigation stream running down each side.  Every sidewalk was shaded with willow, cottonwood and locust, and here and there Adam saw the peach trees that had most likely provided part of his breakfast.

Early as it was, one of the businesses across from the Salt Lake House was open.  Probably just for travelers like me, Adam decided.  He entered in hopes of picking up something to nibble on the road, in the likely event that the next home station was one of the poorer quality.  Inside, he found crackers and cheese and, to his delight, fresh peaches. He gulped at the high price, twenty-five cents a dozen, but gave in to his body’s craving for something fresh.  Then, well stocked against any eventuality, he hustled back across the street and still had a couple of minutes to spare before the new driver appeared.

“Wanna ride up top a spell, son?” the driver suggested, giving Adam’s back a kindly slap as he passed the boy while heading for the front of the stage.  “Give you a good view of Salt Lake.”

“Sure,” Adam agreed readily, knowing that the offer was an honor, given at the driver’s discretion to whomever he chose.  Riding up top would provide a welcome break from the increasingly dreary routine, as well as affording a better view of the lake and the other majestic scenery of this part of the country.  He hadn’t counted on getting a view of Brigham Young’s home, too, but the driver pointed it out as they rumbled past.  A good thing he was sitting high, Adam concluded as he peered over the eight-foot stone wall at the complex of buildings that covered an entire square.  He wouldn’t have seen any of it from street level.  Of course, at the rate the stage whizzed past, he didn’t see much anyway, he admitted with a grin.

Leaving town, the road ran parallel to the Jordan River, although some distance from it.  “That line of trees must mark the river,” Adam commented to the driver.  “Too far away to see what kind, though.”

“Mostly cottonwood, acacia and poplar,” the driver reported, “with some fruit trees the Mormons have planted.”

“I bought some of their peaches at the store back there,” Adam said.  “Welcome to share them if you like.”

The driver laughed.  “Did a mite of my own stockin’ up back there at Salt Lake City, son.  Always do before I head out.  They make mighty good eating.”

“Sure do,” Adam agreed.  He pointed past the line of trees to a dark silhouette, still kissed by the fading lavender and magenta of the rising sun.  “Something moving on that island over there.  Cattle?”

“Yeah.  Mormons use those islands for pasture.”  After guiding the horses around a curve, the driver continued, “River’s only three, maybe four, feet deep between there and the main shore—shallow enough to let ‘em herd the cattle back and forth, deep enough to discourage the cattle from roamin’ off on their own.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Adam laughed.  “Wish we had a setup like that back on our ranch near Virginia City; then I wouldn’t have to spend so much time rounding up strays.”

“Not a job I’d favor,” the driver chuckled back.  “Any strays I get in this business, I leave to round themselves up.”

“Or just leave ‘em behind, huh?” Adam teased.

“Man ain’t a dumb beast,” the driver argued.  “Ought to have sense enough to get hisself where he needs to be, when he needs to be.”

“True enough,” Adam agreed.  He settled back, propping his elbows on the body of the carriage behind him, and enjoyed the magnificent panorama from his high perch.  The stage ran through the deep, narrow and rugged valley and up into the Wasatch spur of the Rocky Mountains.  Reaching the summit of Big Mountain Pass, he turned back for one last look at the shimmering turquoise of Great Salt Lake.

Throughout the morning he calculated that they crossed some creek—the driver called it Bauchmann’s—at least a dozen times as they zigzagged down from the summit.  They finally burst through the mouth of the awe-inspiring Echo Canyon and came to the next home station, almost in the shadow of its red bluffs.  Nearby, Adam saw fields planted with wheat, barley and corn, although the latter looked scraggly, barely able to hold itself upright.  Lack of water, probably, he concluded and determined, as well, that fresh roasting ears weren’t likely to appear on the dinner table.  The food was good at Weber, though, even if it did feature the same bacon and fried eggs served at most home stations.  Fried potatoes and onions, a product of careful cultivation in a harsh land, supplemented the meal.  There was no denying that the settlers of this territory had made the desert blossom like the rose, as the Bible put it.

At the driver’s invitation Adam again mounted the seat beside him and watched the road gradually narrow until it snaked through a mere gorge with high bluffs rising on either side.  Dwarf oak and wild roses covered the lower slopes, but the vegetation grew thinner toward the heights.  Beside a recently felled tree he spotted a beaver, and a whole flock of black-and-white magpies flew overhead.

Approaching the next station, the cliffs became almost vertical, and high on top was a set of stone embattlements.  “Indian trouble?” Adam queried, pointing them out.

The driver chuckled.  “Nope.  Mormon trouble—or trouble for the Mormons, depending on how you see it.  Maybe you recollect Johnson’s War against the Mormon folk?”

Adam’s mouth skewed to one side.  “Wasn’t much of a war.”

The driver laughed aloud this time.  “Sure wasn’t, son, but the Mormons thought it might be, and can’t say as I blame ‘em, with word of the United States Army comin’ agin ‘em.  Built them fortresses to defend the canyon, but never had much need to use ‘em.”

“I remember,” Adam said.  “We lost a lot of folks from our valley about that time.”

As they left Hanging Rock Station, the scenery improved steadily.  Willows and other trees lined the banks of the Weber River, winding through the canyon, and springs abounded all along the road, as well as bushes of gooseberries and currants that made Adam want to hop off and gather fresh fruit.  The sight made him so hungry, in fact, that he dug a peach out of his bag and bit into it, using the back of his hand to wipe away the juice that dribbled down his chin.  Prairie chickens and sage hens, scurrying through the brush, lifted his hopes for a succulent supper at the next home station, and his mouth began to water with the mere memory of Aunt Nelly’s roast chicken and dressing.

The swing station at Echo Canyon was no more than a rough structure of slabs, sturdy enough to keep the wolves out, but not much more.  From there the trail ran northwest up a grassy draw.  The driver pointed out a hollow in the gray sandstone rock to one side.  “Cache Cave.  Quite a history behind it.”

Adam knew an offer when he heard one.  “Like to hear it.”

The driver grinned.  “Figured as much, you bein’ interested in learning, like ole Sam told me back in Salt Lake.  Well, to start with, it’s got other names.  Rock Cave ain’t much of one, to my mind, but Swallow Cave suits it, ‘cause lots of swallows nest inside.  Seen martins around plenty of times, too.  The cave’s been used by injuns, mountain men, fur traders and explorers—whole bunch of ‘em.  I hear there’s upwards of a hundred and fifty names carved in there, some goin’ back far as 1820.”

“Like the names on Independence Rock,” Adam commented.  “Mine’s there, along with my pa’s and my uncle’s.”

“Do say!”  The driver seemed impressed.  “I come around the Horn myself.  Not much way to carve your name on a wave.”  He slapped his knee and laughed hard.

Adam laughed, too.  “My pa was a sailor in his younger days,” he offered.

“Bet he’s got some tales to tell then.  Anyway, that cave was another headquarters for the Mormon military during that sort-of war.”  He frowned slightly.  “I always keep a good lookout, goin’ through here, ‘cause I’ve heard rumors that some genuine bad men hole up in it from time to time.  Reckon you know about bad men, though, from what I’ve heard of Virginia City.”

“She’s got her share,” Adam agreed.  “Sam Brown was about as bad as they come.  I was there when he was gunned down.”  It wasn’t a memory he cherished, but he felt that he owed the driver some return for the information being shared with him.

The driver also recognized an offer when he heard it, and with a wide grin he answered just as Adam had earlier.  “Like to hear about it.”

As Adam shared the story, to the loud guffaws of the driver, the stage left the grassy draw and crossed another sagebrush flat.  He broke off when he sighted a pair of massive, sharp-tipped rocks thrusting toward the clear blue sky.

“Needle Rocks,” the driver said.  “Station up ahead takes its name from them.  You climb back up here, soon as we make the change of mules, boy; that Sam Brown story’s gettin’ right exciting, and I want to hear how it ends.”

“Sure,” Adam agreed readily.  He hopped down as soon as the horses stopped and hustled to the front door of the swing station.  Sitting beside it on a rough plank bench was a bucket of water.  Adam quickly consumed a ladleful, although it was too lukewarm to be very refreshing.  A couple of minutes to stretch his legs, and he was again perched beside the driver, telling of Sam Brown’s final moments of life while the stagecoach swerved from side to side of a canyon, ascending and then descending the steep banks covered with yellow berry, chokecherry, service berry and a variety of other shrubs.

They left the spectacular scenery of Echo Canyon behind and crossed the border of the Territory of Utah into Wyoming, rolling through a grassy valley partially enclosed by perpendicular stone buttes.  A brook teeming with trout ran through its midst, and Adam felt a yearning to sit beneath the shade of the willows at the base of those buttes and dangle a pole, while the scent of wild geraniums perfumed the quiet afternoon.  No quiet afternoons for him, though, not in the foreseeable future.  Nothing but the rattle of wheels over rocky roads and the bite of the wind in his face.

The stage plunged through the swift waters of rocky-bottomed Bear River and charged into the next home station, where the bounty Adam had seen along the road graced the table.  The pretty wife of station keeper Myers served a heaping platter of fried trout with pan-fried potatoes and an overflowing bowl of stewed greens.  While her only comment throughout the meal was the announcement of berry pie for dessert, her accent revealed that she, like her more loquacious husband, was a native of England.  Learning that Adam was college-bound, Myers produced a copy of Volney’s Ruins of Rome and declared his interest in politics, both ancient and current.  Adam would have enjoyed continuing the conversation, but the stage left within half an hour of its arrival.

Adding miles to a journey already overlong to Adam’s aching bones, the road northeast of Bear Creek Station zigzagged this way and then that, due to the irregular lay of the land.  It was, at least, scenic country, especially compared to the deserts of Nevada and Utah.  At the foot of a mountain, the stage forded a muddy stream and continued along a road whose sides teemed with vegetation: stunted oak, blackjack, and box elder, along with bushes of wild cherry and maroon service berry.  The long climb of Quaking Asp Hill, to a height of almost eight thousand feet, followed, and here the surrounding land was a mix: some parts lush with life, others totally bare.  The ridge bore a thick growth of fir and pine, contrasting with the lighter trunks of the quaking aspen in the ravines below.  Even the bare places held a unique attraction, for eerily shaped hills and bluffs of red earth were topped with white clay that made them appear frosted with a fresh fall of snow.  Much as he was enjoying the scenery, however, Adam was tired, so at the next swing station he climbed inside the coach, rolled up in his buffalo robe and slept the night through.

He woke before dawn to even better scenery, the bare spots fewer and further apart the closer the stage drew to Fort Bridger.  Adam was eager to see it, for it was a place the wagon train had missed on its way west.  Being pressed for time if they were to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains before snow fell, the Larrimore train had elected to take the Sublette Cutoff, instead.  The stage wouldn’t be stopping long, though, just long enough to pick up the mail.  Time, Adam reflected, always seems to be in short supply.  Then it was a matter of life or death, while now—he grinned—still a matter of life or death—academically, that is!

Fort Bridger was a pleasant place, almost as lovely as the Ponderosa.  If that’s possible.  Adam fought down another treacherous wave of homesickness.  No, no place could rival that pristine beauty, but these green meadows nestled in forest-crested mountains were stiff competition.  The waters of Black’s Fork of the Green River flowed past the fort, dividing into a dozen or more branches, each bridged, and all of them recombining after passing through the settlement.  A lot of the houses were empty, abandoned like Camp Floyd and for the same reason, the war back East.

“Breakfast soon?” Adam queried as he climbed up beside the driver after the brief stop.

“Next station—Millersville,” the driver reported, adding with a grin, “and I’m as ready for it as you, boy.”

Daylight was full and Adam starving when they reached the home station.  He smiled at the corral formed from broken yoke-bows, no doubt the remnant of numerous emigrant or freight wagons abandoned over the years.  In fact, a long line of them stood nearby, hulking skeletons stripped of usable wood.  Inside, the chair backs were constructed from the same material.  The station keeper, a Mr. Holmes, barely spoke—taciturn by nature, Adam supposed.  His wife, another pretty young Englishwoman, made certain everyone’s mouth was too full for conversation anyway.  Adam feasted on another breakfast of fried fish, trout and suckerfish this time.  The ubiquitous fried potatoes appeared again, too, but these were accompanied by fresh strawberries and cream.

A number of passengers got on at Millersville, including one lady, who automatically inherited the seat beside the driver that Adam had enjoyed so long.  It came as no surprise that the driver preferred the company of a lady to that of a lanky schoolboy—or any other man.  In this case, Adam couldn’t blame the driver at all.  The lady was definitely easy on the eyes.

The road led through Black’s Fork, so clear its rocky bottom could be seen as the stage forded it three times.  At one of the swing stations, Adam walked along the water course, idly picking up a few smooth pebbles from those scattered along the shore.  Soon he had a collection of granite, obsidian and flint, as well as quartz stones of white, yellow and smoky gray.  Walking back to the stage, he rolled them around in his hand, enjoying the cool smoothness.  He had intended to toss them aside when he boarded, but with a nostalgic smile he slipped them into his pocket, instead.  Hoss and Little Joe would enjoy a memento like this of his journey.  At the next stop he made a beeline for the water’s edge, determined to find one of each kind for each brother.  He was still looking when the driver hollered, and he ran to catch the stage.

The next home station afforded the best chance to complete the collection, for it was located at the junction of Ham’s Fork and Black’s Fork, both streams large enough to power a mill.  When the stage arrived, however, Adam was more interested in a meal than a search for pebbles.  His hopes for a good one plummeted at first sight of the hovel of dry stone, fitted together without benefit of mortar.  The stones were piled against a low cliff, which served as the hut’s back wall, and the floor was dirt.  That, in itself, didn’t make Adam think less of the place.  After all, most of the stations were floored with dirt, and he could remember living under similar circumstances himself that first year in Carson Valley.  Nelly Thomas had always kept the cabin clean, though; even the dirt floor had been neatly swept, but this station was filthy.

The station keeper, Scottish Mormon David Lewis, seemed intelligent and courteous, but not ambitious enough, in Adam’s view, to provide a fit home for his family, which included two Irish wives and a handful of rowdy kids.  They were all dressed in tatters—filthy tatters, at that—and looked as if they had never dipped in the nearby streams.  With their pug noses splashed with freckles, the women could have passed for sisters—and might well have been, since Mormon men sometimes married siblings.  Beneath the frayed hems of their faded calico frocks peeked matching sets of bare and decidedly dirty feet.

The sight of the table, again swarming with flies, effectively tempered Adam’s appetite, but couldn’t kill it completely.  He was too hungry for that, and there was no guarantee that the next station wouldn’t offer a table equally repugnant.  He swept the flies aside, choked down what he could and hurried outside to check the streambed for more smooth pebbles his little brothers might like.  Finally, he spotted a bright yellow glint, and shivering as the icy water rippled over his hands, he washed away the soft silt to reveal the final piece of quartz he needed to give each brother a set identical except for size.  He’d try to balance them out, even in that, but he could probably count on sharp-eyed Little Joe to notice if any of his stones were smaller than any of Hoss’s.  Better warn Pa that he may need to act as peacemaker, Adam chuckled to himself as he pocketed the yellow quartz and ambled back toward the stagecoach.

A good thing I completed that collection when I did, he decided as the river was left behind.  The chances of finding quartz on the dry divide the road next crossed shrank to nothing.  The stop at Michael Martin’s swing station was brief, of course, so all Adam had time to do was take a brief look around the owner’s general store and grocery.  He was amazed to see how well stocked it was in a part of the country he still considered the middle of nowhere.  Champagne and other liquors lined the shelves, a little surprising since Mormons didn’t drink much.  Fancy dry goods like linen drapery and ribbons, as well as brandied fruits, jams and jellies were on offer, too, along with the more expected buckskin and moccasins and potted provisions.  Since he still had fresh fruit from Salt Lake City, Adam purchased nothing and hurried back to catch the stage.

The road rose up a mile-wide river valley, and although this wasn’t exactly the trail the Cartwrights had followed west, the scenery recalled what Adam had seen in 1850.  The dainty leaves of the pale-barked quaking asp danced in the slight breeze, alongside willows and wild cherry trees with their large, purple-red fruit.  Scattered among the trees were buffalo berry bushes.  Adam could remember rubbing their tongue-shaped, silvery green leaves between his fingers and taking delight in the feel of their fuzzy undersides.  Inger had made jelly from the red berries, now ripe enough to stir his memory of the sweet fruit.  Wonder if Michael Martin had some of that in stock, he pondered.  Would’ve liked to taste it again—and wild cherry jam.  Inger made that, too.  He didn’t admit, even to himself, that it was memories of his mother he yearned to rekindle.  Before this trip it had been a long time since he’d thought about her, but the sights along the trail reawakened the sound of her gentle laughter.  It had been different from Marie’s tinkling, bell-like laugh—deeper, warmer—but for a moment he could hear them both, laughing together, and somehow it comforted him to think that they were together now, sharing memories of him and Pa and his little brothers.

Dinner came late, as the stagecoach had to make it all the way to Green River, a headquarters station for the Overland Stage and quite a little settlement, with a grocery and several other stores clustered close by.  The meal served by the English wife of the man Adam learned would be his new driver more than made up for the delay, however.  Salmon trout was fried crispy and flaked at the touch of his fork.  He slathered the fluffy biscuits with buffalo berry jelly, pleased that his wish of that afternoon had been so quickly gratified.  It wasn’t as good as he remembered Inger’s being, but nothing had ever quite lived up to the memory of her cooking, not even Hop Sing’s.  Adam washed down the meal with a tall glass of fresh buttermilk, a welcome alternative to all the bad coffee he’d drunk between here and Carson City.  When he finished, he excused himself to catch a breath of fresh air.

He strolled around the yard, noting the well-kept corrals, which held mules for the stage line and horses for the Pony Express, and the pasture beyond, where a few cattle and sheep grazed.  A solid station, and the new eastbound driver, a Scot named McCarthy, seemed like a solid man, too.  Seeing the man exchange a kiss with his wife at the door, Adam scurried back to the stage.  “I would nae leave without ye, lad,” McCarthy said, flashing a grin.

“Thank you for that,” Adam replied.

“Care to ride up top or be ye of a mood to sleep, like the lassies?”

Adam was tired and had intended to go straight to sleep, but he didn’t wish to turn down a gracious offer.  “I’ll ride with you to the next station,” he said.  “Then I’d best get some sleep.”

“Up with ye, then,” McCarthy urged, looking pleased to have company.  “We’ve road to cover.”  As soon as Adam was aboard, he snapped the lines, and the mules took off toward Green River.

“We ferried across this when my family and I emigrated west,” Adam commented as the coach rolled down the bank to the river.

“Still do, some times of the year,” McCarthy told him.  “Not in August, though.  Shallow enough to ford now.”

Adam nodded.  Fording was always preferable to ferrying, in terms of both time and expense, he recalled.  Not that we could ever convince Mrs. Larrimore of that.  How that woman hated rivers!  Though he enjoyed the Scottish driver’s company, the country on the other side of the river wasn’t much to see.  The rolling terrain barely sustained any grass, though sagebrush abounded—sagebrush and alkali dust that cracked his lips and prickled his nose.  By the time they reached the next swing station, Adam decided he’d had enough, and expressing a need for sleep, he climbed back inside the coach.  Once there, however, he found that his weariness wasn’t feigned, for he soon drifted off.

* * * * *

            Fording Big Sandy Creek early the next morning was a more daunting challenge, for the banks were high and stiff and the water in the clear stream swift.  McCarthy’s skill brought them safely through—with apparent ease, even.  He’d be parting company with the passengers here, turning them over to a new driver, while he himself headed back the way they’d come.  “Dry drive ahead,” he said as he helped the two female passengers down from the coach.  “Best fill your canteens before leaving Big Sandy, folks, or ye’ll be sorry ye dinnae take me advice.”

Adam took the counsel to heart.  The very words “dry drive” sent shivers down his spine, as they brought memories of Sublette’s Cutoff and the Forty-Mile Desert surging to his brain.  After breakfast he squatted on a bank dotted with blue lupine, golden sunflowers, bell-shaped blossoms of white mountain heather and some pink flower he couldn’t identify while he filled his canteen with cold water from the rushing stream.  A green-headed horsefly landed on his neck.  Adam swatted it and sent it to an early grave, but the damage was done.  The sting, painful as that of any wasp, raised a welt that itched maddeningly throughout the day.

Eight miles further the stage forded another stream, but as the Little Sandy was completely dry at this season, it presented no problem whatsoever—except to the mind, perhaps.  The sight of that dry creek bed made Adam so thirsty that he opened his canteen to take a drink.  Before capping it again he dabbed a little cold water on his burning neck.  It helped for a while, but as the sun rose higher and he began to sweat, the burning and itching intensified.

After several more easy fords the stage began to climb up toward the Continental Divide.  Two miles short of that landmark, the driver reined in the mules at Pacific Springs.  The station itself was some distance away from where he stopped, however, and Adam soon saw why.  The land around the log hut was an absolute bog; in fact, the only way to the building was a narrow board laid across the soggy turf.  Not a challenge for Adam, with his fine sense of balance, but when he tried to help a full-skirted female passenger, her wobbly footsteps almost toppled both of them into the muck.

Thankfully, he was able to catch the lady around the waist and rock back on his heels without plopping down into the quagmire.  “Oh, dear,” the lady tittered once she stood safely on semi-solid ground, “I do hope the meal merits the effort we’ve made to get here!”

“I hope so, too, ma’am,” Adam returned with a grin.  The porcelain doorknob gave promise of refinement inside, but refinement was only door-deep, he soon concluded.  The furnishings were far from ostentatious, for the only chairs were narrow planks, about as comfortable as perching on a corral rail back home.  The food was a perfect match for the chairs in quality, consisting of potato cubes floating in beef broth.  If there had ever been any actual beef in this stew, it never made it into Adam’s bowl.  The meal was hot and somewhat filling; nevertheless, as he left, Adam saw a chicken hawk circling overhead and silently willed it on to better pickings.  Slapping away the cloud of mosquitoes that descended upon him, he made his way to the plank over the marsh and hurried to the stage after watching, with amusement, as another passenger helped the lady across this time.

In no time at all the stage topped the hill to the east and rolled across the divide.  Though Adam knew he still had a long journey ahead, he felt that he was really on his way now, as he, like the waters on this side of the pass, raced toward the Mississippi River.  South Pass was another old friend from the trail, awakening more memories of his trip west with Pa and Inger and his baby brother.  Hard to think of Hoss as a baby, but he had been then.  Now he was a fine, strapping boy and another little fellow carried the title of baby brother, Adam mused wistfully.  Then he set his mouth in a hard line.  Will you stop it? he scolded himself.  You’ll be blubbering like a baby yourself if you keep this up!

Winding roads charged up and plunged down, and the stage forded another succession of creeks—some dry, some not.  Even those that weren’t had, on average, only two feet of water, so they caused no delay and no concern for the skilled driver.  Strawberry Creek was particularly attractive with its stream banks lined with red and white willows and poplars and bright red strawberries, peeking temptingly from beneath jagged-edged leaves.  The stage continued on without stopping, except for periodic changes of team, until it finally rolled into Rock Creek for supper.  Though Adam wouldn’t have believed it possible, the food in this filthy place was worse than that at Pacific Springs.  He choked down what he could and hoped for better things on the morrow.

* * * * *

            Yawning widely, Adam stretched his arms back in a miserably futile attempt to work out the kinks from another night aboard the stagecoach.  “Breakfast here?” he inquired, covering another yawn.

“Next station,” the driver replied.  “Got a lady in the house there, and she’s a right fine cook.”

Adam’s eyes finally opened wide enough to look around the swing station, and he grinned as he recognized the location.  Ice Spring Slough, too, carried some fond memories.  He could almost see Hoss, squalling up a storm after he’d given the baby a piece of ice, dug from below ground, to suck on.  Inger had scolded him soundly for that, and he’d felt terrible when he heard that he might have caused his baby brother to choke.  The ice had just tasted so good after all the hot days of trudging beside the wagon that he’d been sure Hoss would enjoy it, too.  No time to dig ice this morning, but it wasn’t as tempting, anyway, in the chilly morning air.  He was more hungry than thirsty now and was glad to climb aboard as soon as the team was changed.  Drivers generally didn’t lead him astray when it came to meals, so he was looking forward to this one.  Even if it turned out to be greasy gravy and rock-hard biscuits, though, his gnawing belly was insisting that he stuff his face full.

The stage descended into the valley of the Sweetwater River.  On both sides walls of white granite, flecked with black mica, rose three to four hundred feet.  The path of the river was so serpentine that the stage was forced to ford it twice before rolling in to the home station located at the first of three more fording places clustered close together.  Three Crossings.  Poor Mrs. Larrimore had practically been in hysterics at the thought of fording a river three times in succession.  Adam had never understood how his mother could put up with the irritating woman, but that was just Inger.  She’d been patient with everyone, whether it was a foolishly fearful woman or a little boy who had harvested a crop of sharp burrs when he strayed too far from the wagon.

There had been nothing here then, but Adam was glad to see the log station.  He hustled beneath the skull of a full-grown bighorn sheep, which hung over the doorway.   Inside, he noted with approval that the floor was swept clean and the walls even papered.  The table was spread with a clean cloth, and the food looked great.  No greasy gravy here!  Instead of the usual bacon, the meat was antelope steak, and Adam’s mouth watered at the sight, for this was a dish he had not eaten in years, not since the early days in Carson Valley.  Antelope still roamed the valleys near the Ponderosa, but Pa, refusing to take the Indians’ meat supply, wouldn’t let them shoot one anymore.  Adam agreed with that policy, but tasting antelope again would be a treat—especially when it came accompanied with fluffy biscuits like these.  The coffee and cream were both of excellent quality, too, as was the cheese.  After finishing off a slice of gooseberry pie, Adam bought a little extra cheese to take on the stage.  Didn’t hurt to be prepared, especially since the next stop was unlikely to provide as satisfying a meal as this had been.

The road through the next section offered a visual feast to match the one his stomach had just enjoyed.  The Sweetwater Valley was draped in a verdant fabric of grass, embroidered with flowers and bordered with willow thickets from which fat grouse skittered in and out.  Fringing the fabric were two parallel ranges of mountains, running east and west.   The bare, sandy sides of the Sweetwater Range, to the south, contrasted with the exuberant life of the northern Rattlesnake Range. There, trees of all varieties abounded.  Long rows of aspen, beech and cottonwood lined the river, while pine, cedar, cypress and other evergreens climbed the slopes, and bushes of ripe red strawberries, currants and gooseberries peeked out beneath the green canopy.  Though Adam caught little sign of them from the stagecoach, he knew the Rattlesnake Range harbored large and sometimes dangerous animals, as well: bighorn sheep, cougars, grizzly bears and wolves.

Despite having such resources close to hand, Monsieur Planté and his family of French-Canadians, managers of the next home station, set one of the poorest tables Adam had seen anywhere.  The milk had obviously been watered down to make it stretch, so much, in fact, that there looked to be more water than milk in the pitcher he saw on the table as he entered.  He could tell at a glance that the sliced bread was only half-baked, and the butter smelled rancid at a distance.  For this questionable fare, the standard seventy-five cents was charged without the slightest qualm.  Adam turned and walked out.  No sense wasting Pa’s money on grub like that!  He’d make out on the cheese he’d bought at Three Crossings.

Coming in to Devil’s Gate, the next swing station, the stage again forded the Sweetwater, but the water came only to the axle.  Even Mrs. Larrimore wouldn’t have blinked an eye at this, Adam mused with a grin.  The stage splashed through easily and rattled down the road, another mile bringing them to that grand register of the plains, Independence Rock.  Adam remembered reading about it in Pa’s guide book of the trail and stretching his eyes to see the giant granite boulder and other landmarks for days before they came into sight.  Now, the speedy stage rushed past them in mere hours.

Saleratus Lake, where he and Billy Thomas had filled pails with the prairie’s natural leavening agent, flashed past, and then about every three miles the stage rumbled through some creek whose name Adam was sure he once knew, but could no longer recall.  Finally, they stopped at Willow Springs for another poor supper.  The water from the springs was pure and ice-cold, sheltered from the sun as it was by eight-foot banks, covered with willows.  At least, that’s the way Adam remembered it.  Now, after the passage of a decade’s worth of emigrants west, the willows were nothing but stumps.  The water was still as icy as he remembered, though, so Adam filled his canteen, hoping the mountain air would help the water retain its coolness for when he’d actually need it the next day.

Far in the distance he caught sight of a lone buffalo and recalled the excitement of that first one his father had killed and brought back to share with the rest of the wagon train.  Descending darkness shut out the nostalgic scene, and if there were any others, they were passed unnoticed in the night.  Adam’s dreams that night, though, were sweet with remembrances of his gentle Swedish mother as they walked together beside their ox-drawn wagon.

* * * * *

            Adam smiled at the bevy of bronze-skinned children playing about the door of Deer Creek Station.  A number of other buildings surrounded the station, including a post office, but Adam didn’t have time to post a letter.  What news did he have to relate, anyway?  Dear Pa, I’m exhausted, battered and bruised from riding in this stagecoach night and day?  Or, Dear Hoss, don’t travel this way; the food’s terrible?  No, his family could do without news like that, at least until he had some good news to put with it, like his acceptance into Yale College.  At breakfast he met Major Twiss, the Indian agent who lived here, and Monsieur Bissonette, whose accent strongly reminded him of Marie.  The latter invited all the stage passengers to follow him to his combination store and saloon.   Adam tagged along and bought a bit of pemmican and some crackers against culinary emergencies.

Though he still felt a need to study for his entrance exam, the scenery was so magnificent throughout the day that Adam found it hard to keep his eyes on his book.  The Black Hills were dark with deep green pines, and the land rich in water and wildlife, but the stations put that wealth to the sorriest use conceivable.  Of course, he realized that station keepers had little time to hunt, with stages and Pony riders coming through so regularly, but the meager meals gave him a renewed appreciation for Inger’s talents over a cook fire and Pa’s taking time to bring in fresh meat along the trail.  They’d paid for their slow pace by getting to the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains so late in the season that Pa had decided not to risk the crossing, but that had turned out for the best.  Though their original destination had been California, now Adam couldn’t think of any place but Nevada as home.

If majestic scenery and nostalgic memories hadn’t served to distract him from his studies, the conversation of his fellow passengers that Friday morning surely did.  Not long after leaving Deer Creek, a man seated across from Adam casually remarked, “Next home station is Horseshoe Creek.  Anybody not know what that means?”

The man next to Adam grinned broadly beneath his black handlebar mustache.  “That the biscuits is tougher than horseshoes?” he suggested.

The first man guffawed, slapping his knee.  “That’s a good one!”  He sobered quickly.  “Ain’t a laughing matter, though.  If any of these folks have never ridden this way before, they might need a word of warning.”

“I haven’t,” Adam admitted freely.  “Not by stage, that is.  I passed through in ’50 with my folks, but there wasn’t anything here then.  Well, except . . .”

“Indians?” a lady sharing Adam’s seat asked in a shaky voice.  “Is it trouble with them you’re warning us of, Mr. . .?”

“Renfro,” the man supplied with a tip of his flat-crowned, brown felt hat.  “No, ma’am.  They can be a mite pesky hereabouts, but redskins ain’t nothing to compare with”—he dropped his voice and whispered ominously—“Jack Slade.”

The man beside Adam shook his head, a strand of his shoulder-length black hair hitting Adam in the mouth.  “Jack Slade,” he chuckled.  “I know him well.  Division head for this section of the Overland Stage, and a more gracious gentleman you couldn’t hope to meet.”

“Unless,” Renfro said with a cock of his head.

“Well, yes . . . unless,” the other man admitted.

“Unless . . . what?” the lady asked, fingers fidgeting with the cameo at her neck.  She leaned forward, face intent, as did the passengers sharing Renfro’s seat.

“Unless he’s been drinking, ma’am.”  Renfro smiled at her.  “You got nothing to worry about, of course.  Slade’s always genteel with the ladies, but the rest of us best watch our step . . . and even if the biscuits are hard as horseshoes, don’t dare to complain, not if you value your life.  Slade don’t take kindly to anyone insulting his sweet Molly.”

Convinced the man was making sport of them, Adam smiled wryly.  “Has he ever actually killed anyone?”

“You bet he has, son!” Renfro sputtered, clearly put off by a mere boy daring to question his word.  “Killed his first man when he was just thirteen, and then there’s what he did to Jules Reni some time back.”

“Had cause for that,” the man who claimed to know Slade alleged.  “Reni near killed him when the Overland sent him to clean up Reni’s gang of thugs at Julesburg.”

Renfro shrugged.  “True enough.  Can’t fault him for going after a man that emptied a pistol in him and then fired two barrels of buckshot at him, for good measure.”

“He lived through that?”  Adam’s mouth gaped open.

“He did, son.  Reni thought he’d left Slade for dead, but Slade promised to live long enough to wear Reni’s ears on his watch chain, and he made good on that promise.”

Adam glanced to his seat mate for confirmation, and the mustached man nodded.  “That’s what I heard.  Tied Reni to a corral and used him for target practice ‘til Reni begged him to get it over with.  Slade did, and then he cut off Reni’s ears, just like he’d said he would.”

The lady shivered.  “That’s a dreadful story, and I don’t think I believe a word of it.”

Adam wasn’t sure he did, either.  It was the kind of story men might tell to scare a youngster, as they surely considered him to be, but it was hard to believe they’d want to frighten the lady.  Most men had better manners.  He’d seen some men in Virginia City tough enough to do just what Slade was accused of, too.

“Didn’t mean to worry you none, ma’am,” the man with the mustache said.  “As I said, Slade’s been a perfect gentleman every time I’ve come this way.  Don’t fret yourself a minute.”

The lady smiled stiffly, but the wrinkles in her forehead indicated that she was still worried about meeting the notorious Slade.  As the stage pulled into Horseshoe Station and Adam helped her down from the coach, she pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, “Watch yourself in there, boy.  You seem a mannerly sort, but it doesn’t pay to be careless with a man like that.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll mind my manners,” Adam promised, though not from fear of Jack Slade.  He still only half believed the wild tale.  When he walked into the dog trot cabin and saw Slade for himself, Adam was certain the other gents had been pulling his leg.   Not only did Slade seem mild-mannered and completely cordial, he was a skinny little fellow, not even as tall and heavy as his wife.  In fact, Slade wasn’t much taller than Hoss, Adam noted with a smile, and not nearly as stocky as his eleven-year-old brother.

Virginia Slade, better known as Molly, set a decent table, at least by home station standards.  Nothing to brag about, but not much to raise complaint over, either.  Just a meal.  Adam had kept his tongue under far worse provocation, so he found it easy to politely thank Miss Molly for the meal when the driver rose from his seat to signal that it was time to reboard the stage.

As the passengers all stood, Renfro asked the station keeper if he had the time.  Obligingly, Slade pulled out his pocket watch, and Adam could almost feel his eyes widening at the sight of the watch fob that ornamented the chain.  Dried flesh, without a doubt, and unless his imagination was working overtime, exactly the shape of a withered ear.  Adam gulped and blessed Pa for teaching him good manners.

Renfro chuckled as everyone settled into their seats on the stage once more.  “Well, boy, still think I was gilding the lily?”

“Guess not,” Adam conceded.

“Don’t bother thanking me,” Renfro cackled.  “For the warning, I mean.”

Adam took him at his word and didn’t.

The road ran along the course of the North Platte, but since it was closer to the hills than the water, the path was rocky and uneven.  Adam eagerly took advantage of the swing stations at Cottonwood Springs and Star Ranch to light down and rest, if only for the time it took to change teams.  Ft. Laramie, coming up, was a place he would gladly have stayed longer, for he had enjoyed his first visit to the fort.  Then it had been a leisurely stop for the wagon train, a time to make repairs and replenish supplies.  Now there wasn’t even enough time to run over to the post bakery for a loaf of good bread.  Renfro did manage to pick up a copy of the New York Times at the sutler’s store and sociably read the latest news to his fellow passengers.

The newspaper was a week old, but even so, it contained fresher news than Adam was used to getting in his part of the country.  Everyone was most interested in the progress of the war, of course, and the front page was full of reports and rumors: General Banks had withdrawn from Sandy Hook; the rebels had reoccupied Harper’s Ferry; a Confederate steamboat had been captured on the Mississippi.  Adam was most concerned, however, about the report of a recent battle in Missouri, where 1,235 were said to be dead, wounded or missing at Wilson’s Creek. That was more than two hundred miles south of St. Joseph, where his friends, the Edwards, were living, but still too close for comfort.  Adam listened with rapt attention, barely aware of the next bumpy stretch of nine miles.

When the stage stopped at Bordeaux’s Ranch, which one of the other passengers called Laramie City, Renfro automatically stopped reading—in mid-sentence, no less.  “Time for dinner,” he announced cheerily as he folded his paper and sprang up to open the door.

“Guess he’s hungry,” chuckled the man with the mustache.

“Aren’t we all?” Adam responded with a cheeky grin.

“Manners, boy, manners,” the other man laughed back.  “Not that Bordeaux is anything like Slade.”

To Adam, there wasn’t much difference between Jack Slade and the French-Canadian James Bordeaux, the station keeper here, except for reputation.  Both treated him well enough and served up a meal that was about equal in quality.  Bordeaux ran a small store here, too, though, and while most of the goods were designed to catch the Indian eye, Adam saw one item he just had to have.  The pipe was simple in construction, but its sandstone bowl was polished until it shone like marble.  Perfect for Pa, a memento of the trip for him, just as the river pebbles would be for Hoss and Little Joe.  Adam bargained a little, to get the price down, and carried it back onto the stagecoach.

“I do hope a boy of your age hasn’t taken up the vice of smoking,” the lady who had been so solicitous of his manners back at Slade’s place chided.

“No, ma’am.  It’s not for me; it’s a gift for my father.”  Adam was more than a little tired of having every female who boarded the stage telling him how he ought to behave, but he kept his reply polite.  ‘Cause I do know how to behave, he told her silently.

Renfro remained behind at Bordeaux’s.  No loss, except he kept the newspaper with him.  Oh, well, Adam thought.  Maybe I’m just as well off not hearing more war news.  As long as Jamie and his father are safe, it doesn’t concern me, anyway.

* * * * *

            Adam took another swig of water from his canteen, but no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t seem to wash the grease from his mouth.  Breakfast at Spring Ranch that morning had been plentiful, but the bacon, antelope, biscuits and doughnuts had all been fried in the same pan.  The flavors had mixed together, with grease saturating everything.  Probably nothing short of washing his mouth out with lye soap would get the taste of that grease out.  Between that and the swarms of mosquitoes that were still attacking after feasting on him and his fellow passengers all night, this had been one miserable morning.

The stage ascended a long slope, the earth fissured randomly by wide cracks and canyons, and after a twelve-mile incline, headed down again.  Recognizing the name of the next station, Adam all but hung out the window to catch a first glimpse of an old trail friend.  Finally, a blue mound appeared on the horizon, growing in size and lightening in shade until the eight-hundred-foot mass of Scott’s Bluff loomed before him, giving promise of more familiar landmarks soon to appear.

The noon meal at the home station here offered the usual bacon and biscuits, but Adam couldn’t tolerate the thought of more grease.  Since there was also cheese available, he filled several biscuits with that and took them outside to eat.  He looked ahead, craning his eyes for the next major landmark, much as he had when a small boy, traveling the opposite direction.  How he’d pestered Pa about seeing Chimney Rock!  Looked forward to it for days—maybe even weeks—then feared he’d never see it when cholera struck their wagon train and took so many lives.  Billy Thomas’s baby brother Bobby, big Frederick Zuebner and Adam’s gentle young friend, Johnny Payne, as well as others he’d come to care about over the weeks they’d traveled together, had been left behind along this stretch of road.  Wish there was time to stop and visit their graves.  Doubt if I could even find them, though.

Adam knew his wish would go ungranted.  No time for searching, anywhere along the route.  Even the home stations were but brief stopovers, while at the swing stations, like Fickin’s Springs and Chimney Rock just ahead, they’d stay long enough to change teams and not a minute longer.  Not even time to walk over and touch that special place again, as he had when Pa’s strong arms carried him to the pinnacle back then, after the sickness finally released its iron grip.  Just being able to touch it, after fearing it was the clouds of heaven he’d touch next, had breathed hope into Adam’s young heart, and he’d known in that very moment that they’d make it all the way to California, all the way to Pa’s dream.  If I touched it now, would I feel that same faith, that same assurance that I’ll make it all the way to Yale, all the way to my dream?  A childish notion, he supposed, but somehow he wished he could reach out to the magic of Chimney Rock once more.

He did have time to fill his canteen at the nearby spring and to gaze up at the clay spire, rising five hundred feet into the air.  He had expected it to seem smaller to his more adult eyes, the way other things had, but he still felt the same awe he had as a child.  He suddenly wished Hoss could be here to view it with him, for his younger brother had been born in the shadow of Chimney Rock.  That birth, after so much death, had brought renewed life to everyone on the Larrimore train and given them the courage to forge ahead—through mountains and deserts; through rain, wind and snow; through everything a hard land could throw at them.  They’d persevered and they’d conquered.  No, Adam decided, it wasn’t magic he needed, just a fresh reminder that courage could conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

The next swing station was Courthouse Rock, another old friend, and then the road passed over a couple of small streams.  When one of the other passengers called one of them the Little Punkin, Adam had to laugh.  He’d miss that “little punkin” back home and the older boy who had given the infant Joseph that nickname.  His heart welled up with homesickness once more, but this time he didn’t treat it as an enemy to his manhood; rather, he embraced the memories and drew strength from them.

The sky had been overcast and gray all day, but now the clouds turned dark and foreboding, with pouches hanging down heavy with water.  If those let loose, Adam thought, Mud Springs will really live up to its name.

The man sitting next to him peered around him.  “Looks like we’re in for a blow.  Better roll down those curtains, boy.”

Adam obliged the man by releasing the leather curtains, and all around the coach other passengers did the same.  One remarked, “Don’t much like the look of those clouds.”

“Yeah, we’re like to get wet, hoofin’ it to the home station,” the man by Adam replied.

“Hope that’s all,” the first man returned in ominous tones.  “Don’t like the look of those clouds,” he said again

Curiosity piqued, Adam peered out the edge of the curtain.  The clouds did seem darker, almost black now, low-hanging and shaggy, but still just rain clouds, to his eye.  He was about to ask the other man what was concerning him when he heard a yell from outside and his head thumped back against the seat.  “Moving faster,” he observed.

“Tryin’ to outrun the storm, I reckon,” his seatmate theorized.

Once more Adam lifted the edge of the curtain and watched, fascinated, as a brilliant dagger of light struck the earth, followed by a loud crack of thunder.  Again he heard the driver yell, and again the stagecoach lurched forward as the mules were whipped to a faster pace.  For a mile they ran as though hounds were nipping their heels and then the stage pulled to an abrupt stop.  Almost immediately the driver jerked opened the door.  “Twister!” he hollered above the roaring wind.  “Everybody inside—fast!”  He ran back to the front of the coach to unhitch the mules.

No one needed a second warning.  Hearts leaping into their throats, the men jumped down without using the step.  The one who had been sitting beside Adam shoved him on, while remaining behind long enough to help the only female passenger down.  Along with the other men, Adam dashed toward the scant shelter of the sod station.  When everyone was inside, they all huddled at the doorway, watching in horror as a funnel-shaped tail dipped down from the wall of glowering clouds and headed straight for them.  The spinning tail whipped this way and that, flinging dust into the air.  As the cyclone spun closer, Adam could feel the wind blast his face.

The woman screamed and fell to her knees behind him.  “Oh, dear God, save us!” she cried.

“Get back from that door!” yelled the station keeper.

Adam hauled the woman to her feet and pulled her over to the solid earthen wall at the side.  “Safest place,” he explained hurriedly.  “Just like being inside a cave.”  The woman seemed reassured, and Adam could only hope he was right in his analogy.  He’d never seen a tornado before, but in the back of his mind he seemed to remember hearing that folks generally went underground, if they could, when one threatened.  A sod house was close to being underground, wasn’t it?

With the door shut, the place was plunged into darkness, except for the flickering light from the fireplace.  Outside the roar grew louder and a single shingle of the roof blew off.  Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, the wind dwindled.  “It’s moving away from us,” someone whispered, as if fearful a loud voice would call it back.

“Thank God,” the woman sighed.

“Just hope the coach is all right,” the driver muttered, “or we’ll be stayin’ with you a spell, Jim.”

“You better hope,” the station keeper grunted, “‘cause I ain’t got no extra beds.”

Outside, the wind died down still more, and they could hear the soft patter of rain on the cedar roof.  “I gotta check,” the driver said, heading toward the door.

Adam was right behind him.  If anything had happened to that coach, if anything delayed them, even one day, he’d miss the entrance exam.  He had to know.  Holding his breath, he burst through the door and exhaled in mighty relief.  The stagecoach was still there, still standing.  He cut a quick glance at the corral.  The mules were there, looking skittish, but unharmed.  The only damage he saw, in fact, was to the open shed just beyond the pole corral.  Whatever roof it had one time had was gone.

“Get back inside and get yourself some grub, boy,” the driver scolded.  “We got time to make up, and I won’t wait for no dilly-daddlin’ youngster who just has to stand around and gawk.

“Need help with the team?” Adam offered.

“Send McArdle out for that; it’s his job.  Now, git!”

Adam trotted back inside, delivered the message to the station keeper and sat down at the table.

“Is the stage all right?” the woman asked anxiously.

“Just fine, ma’am,” Adam said.

She sighed with relief.  “Oh, good.  I didn’t want to miss my connection to Denver.”

Half a dozen brown-speckled blackbirds skittered in through the open door, and the passengers laughed out their relief as they fed biscuit crumbs to the birds hopping around their feet.  No one had the heart to shoo the little creatures out into the rain.  There were no complaints about the food here, either; though it was no better than that served at other home stations, everyone was just glad to be alive and in one piece and able to get on the road again.

East of Mud Springs the road evened out.  Instead of steep ascents and descents every few miles, the ups and downs were more moderate now, and the thoroughbrace turned the stagecoach into a giant swinging cradle. Soon the smooth rocking lulled Adam and his fellow passengers to sleep.

~ ~ Notes ~ ~

Mark Twain describes station keeper Jack Slade in Roughing It.

The news Renfro read to his fellow passengers is taken from the New York Times of August 23, 1861.