Sophie's Journey - Chapter 22- The Price of the Road

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 22

The Price of the Road

The Nebraska plains stretched out, covered in yellow grass as dry as old straw. Heatwaves rose from the ground, making it hard for Sophie to see where the land ended and the sky began. She held onto the pull-bars of her handcart. The wood was polished from her hands and the trail dust.

The morning was quiet. Only the squeak of the cart wheels and the low voices of the people broke the peace. Four hundred people walked in a long line across the plains. There were too many, and most were too thin. The land seemed big enough to swallow them up.

The line is stretching out again, Mother,” Peter said as he walked beside the cart, his eyes focused on the gap that had opened between their cart and the one ahead. “Elder Willie is signaling for the lead carts to slow, but the back is still a mile away, buried in the dust.”

Sophie did not look back. She knew the dust well. It was viscous and got into everything. It covered her skirt and stuck to her children's eyelashes, leaving pale lines on their faces when they cried.

“We stay with the column,” Sophie said, her voice a harsh rasp. “Keep your eyes on the track, Peter.”

A shout came from behind. People passed the news along the line: Edward Griffiths was missing. He had been out looking for cows for three hours, and now he was gone.

The carts slowed down. Everyone paused, as they always did when someone was lost. No one said anything, but everyone knew what it meant—another person gone.

An hour passed. Then another. The heat made it hard to judge distance. Every shape on the horizon looked hopeful, but it was always just grass. Then they saw a person walking, leading a limping cow. The figure moved slowly through the heat. A dark, sticky smear of blood trickled down his forearm. He didn't speak as he passed Sophie, but the story trailed after him quietly: two wolves had pinned him down near the water, and he had fought them off with nothing but a staff and the desperation of a man who knew he couldn't return empty-handed. He had lost two of the animals, but the one he led was a victory that appeared thin and costly in the midday sun.

The carts moved again. The people gathered around Griffiths and the cow were quiet about the loss.

“One cow for a man’s life,” Marianne whispered, her hand quivering as she touched the frame of the cart, her face concealed behind the brim of a bonnet that had known better days. “Is that the math now, Sophie? Is that what we are worth?”

Sophie strengthened her hold on the wood. “The math is getting us to the valley, Marianne. Everything else is just the price of the road. Help me keep the cart steady. The ruts are deep here.”

They stopped to rest in the afternoon. News circulated quickly through the Danish carts. Joseph Wall, who was eighteen, lay on the ground beside his sister's handcart. His skin was pale and gray. He breathed fast and shallow. Captain Willie came, and the sub-captains, their shadows spreading long and black across the grass. No one spoke. The boy's sister crouched next to him, her hand on his chest, feeling that frantic thrumming. The sun baked down. The grass held its silence.

“He cannot walk,” one of the men said. “The fever has taken hold of his lungs. If we stop for him, we stop for the winter. The vote in Florence was clear. We move, or we perish.”

Sophie watched Captain Willie, whose face remained a mask. He looked at the boy, then at the horizon, where the sun started its slow, punishing descent. “The Martin Company is behind us,” the captain noted, his tone pressed by the weight of five hundred souls. “We leave him with a water skin. They will pick him up, or they will bury him.”

The decision appeared heavy to Sophie. The men nodded and looked away from Emily, the boy's sister. The trail demanded hard choices. Emily Wall was only fifteen, but she did not move. She stood over her brother with her fists clenched. Emily spoke, her voice faint but resonant with a terrifying conviction. “I will not leave him to the wolves or the wind. If the company moves, we move.”

“You cannot pull him, child,” Brother Savage said, his voice soft and low. “A handcart is meant for flour and bedding, not the load of a grown man. You will break your back before the sun sets.”

Emily did not answer. She turned to her cart and moved crates onto the ground. Another young woman helped her lift Joseph into the cart. He hit the wood and groaned, but Emily kept going. She grabbed the pull-bar and pulled it with all her strength.

The wheels sank into the sand. Emily pulled again, her feet slipping, but the cart moved forward a little at a time. Soon the line was moving again.

The land changed. The yellow grass was gone, replaced by rough ground. The air had a dry, dusty scent. Scouts came back with news that worried everyone: a group of Indians was coming from the west. Levi Savage said there were about eight hundred of them, enough to overwhelm the company.

“Stay close to the cart, Emma,” Sophie commanded, her heart skipping a beat as she saw the dark line of riders appearing on the ridge. “Peter, take Anne’s hand. Do not wander.”

The meeting was not violent as many had feared. The Indians rode their horses around the company, raising a cloud of red dust. They watched the handcarts with interest. The Saints grew quiet and waited.

One man got down from his horse. His face was worn from travel. He walked to a cart near the front and pointed at the wheels and the pull-bar. The woman holding the bar looked surprised, but he took hold of the wood.

He pulled hard, and the cart jumped forward. He laughed loudly and pulled even harder, as if testing his strength. The woman and her daughter hurried to keep up. He did not slow down. It seemed like a game to him.

Sophie experienced a chill. The riders came closer to her cart. Otto and Anne were inside. Anne whimpered and grabbed the edge of the cart when she saw the tall men with painted faces. Sophie could see the fear in her eyes. She lifted Anne out and held her close.

“It is all right, Anne,” Sophie whispered, though her own hands were trembling. “They are only curious. They are not here to hurt us.”

A tall man with eyes that appeared to hold the depth of the prairie stopped beside their cart. He looked at Otto, who was gazing back with a wide, toothy grin, completely unconcerned by the sudden arrival of eight hundred strangers. The man touched the handcart, his fingers following the grain of the wood. He looked at Sophie, then at the child, and made a pulling gesture. Sophie hesitated, her instincts shouting to pull Otto away, but she saw Brother Savage nod slowly from a distance.

She put Anne back in the cart next to Otto. The man took the cart and pulled it easily for almost a mile, helping them through the sandy trail. The children started to laugh, forgetting their fear. For Otto and Anne, it was just another part of their long journey.

When the sun set, the Indians rode away to the west. The camp was quiet that night. People were tired after the long day. Sophie sat by her cart and touched the spot where the stranger had held it. The wood was cold.

“They wanted to help, Mother,” Emma said as she curled up next to Sophie. “The man was strong.”

“He was,” Sophie said.

She watched while night fell over the prairie. The day had been hard. They searched for a lost man, almost left a boy behind, saw a girl refuse to give up, and depended on a stranger's help for a mile.

Everything about the journey was getting harder. Each day, survival proved more difficult. Sophie did not pray for a miracle. She sat quietly and pondered the price of the road as she watched the fire burn down to ash.

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