Sophie's Journey - Chapter 29
Shadows of the Bluffs
Frost came hard for the first time, stiffening the tent canvas until it was hard and brittle. Sophie woke before dawn to her own breath hanging in pale clouds. She reached over and pulled the blanket higher around Otto's shoulders. The boy stirred but did not wake. Beside him, Emma slept with her thumb against her lips, a habit Sophie had tried and failed to break.
She rose quietly. Her joints ached from the cold ground. Outside, the world was white and brittle. The grass along the riverbank stood in frozen spears. The North Platte moved slowly, its edges sealed with a thin skin of ice.
"Sharp one, ain't it?" Marianne stood by the dead fire, her arms wrapped around herself. "Brother Willie says we'll roll at nine. The captains are waiting for the sun to soften the ground."
Peder Mortenson emerged from the gloom. "The ground won't soften much today,” he said, his breath forming a cloud. "Frost this early means the season's turning. I've seen it before—Denmark, '47. The cold came and never left until spring."
Sophie pulled her shawl tighter. "You think it'll hold?"
"I think it'll get worse." Peder squatted by the dead fire and poked the ashes with a stick. "The captains know it too. That's why they're pushing for Ash Hollow—water and shelter before the real cold sets in." He looked up at Sophie, his face serious. "Keep your little ones close today. The trail ahead is bad—sand giving way to rock, the river pressing close, and bluffs steeper than they look."
Sophie nodded. “Another hard day ahead,” she muttered.
She looked toward the river. The bluffs rose on the far side, layered in tan and red stone. She no longer counted the days since Florence. Someone had scratched the miles on a wagon board: more than 380. The numbers mattered less than the tiredness in her children's faces.
"Peter," she called. "Wake the little ones. We need to pack before the bugle."
Peter came out of the tent quickly, all energy and no caution. He was ten and did not know what it meant to be tired. Sophie knew. She had watched the meat melt from her bones and felt her skirts grow loose.
They packed as they had done a hundred times. Carts loaded, tents pulled down. The dying fires hissed as river water hit the coals. Captain Willie rode past on his horse, face grim. He looked like a man carrying a burden he had not chosen.
The company rolled forward at nine, as promised. The sandy roads that had plagued them lately hardened overnight, making it easier to pull. Sophie pulled her cart with Otto fastened to her back in a makeshift sling. The child was two and getting bigger, but he could not keep pace with the older children.
The sun rose, and the frost melted. The sand turned soft again. By noon they reached the foot of the bluffs, where the river pressed close to the stone. Sophie watched the captains point at the ground ahead. The river bottom was marshy, choked with willow and reeds that would catch a cart axle. To reach Ash Hollow, they would have to climb two miles up broken shelves of ochre stone, then descend another two or three miles. What should have been easy miles along the water had become a half-day struggle through rough ground.
"We'll stop here," Captain Willie called out. "Take water from the river. Fill everything you have. It's seven miles to the next reliable source."
The company halted in the shadow of the bluffs. Sophie unslung Otto and set him down on a blanket. Peter went to the river with the water pails while Emma tended to Otto, wiping his face with a corner of her smock. The boy had developed a cough that worried Sophie, though she said nothing. There was little enough to be done for it.
She was unpacking the dried meat when she heard the scream.
It cut through the camp noise like a blade—a child's cry, high and terrified, followed by shouts. Sophie ran before she could think, legs carrying her toward the sandy slope where the younger children played.
When she arrived, Sophie saw Captain Siler standing with his pistol drawn. On the ground lay the twisted body of a rattlesnake, its head blown off, its body still quivering in the dust. And in the arms of Brother Cantwell was little Ellen.
Sophie pushed through the crowd. The girl lay limp in her father’s arms. Suddenly, she gasped and placed her hand on her chest, and Sophie could see the puncture marks in her already swelling hand.
"She was playing in the sand," someone said. "It came out of nowhere."
Brother Cantwell held his daughter as if she might dissolve. "The captain killed it," he said, his voice strange and distant. "But the bite—what do we do for the bite?"
Captain Siler was already holstering his pistol and pulling items from his saddlebag. "Powder and lard," he said. "Best remedy we have. And a little whiskey inside, to steady her."
Sophie watched as the Captain stirred the powder into the lard in his tin cup. He applied the gray paste to Ellen's hand while the girl whimpered, her eyes glassy with shock. Then he produced a flask and tipped a small amount between her lips. Ellen coughed, sputtered, then grew quiet.
"She'll sleep now," Siler said. "The Lord willing, she'll pull through."
Sophie saw doubt in his eyes. He would not meet Brother Cantwell's gaze. She remembered a snakebite in Denmark, a farmhand bitten by an adder in the hay. The man lived, but his arm never worked right again. Ellen was so small.
They carried the girl to her family's wagon, where Sister Cantwell waited. Sophie returned to her own children, who had gathered in a silent cluster by the handcart. Peter held Otto's hand. Tears marked Emma's face; she had not bothered to wipe them.
"Will she die?" Emma questioned, trying to sound brave, but her voice cracked on the last word.
"I don't know," Sophie said. She rarely lied to her children, and she would not start now. "They've given her a remedy. We can only pray."
They ate what passed for dinner: a few bites of tough meat and flour gruel. Sophie chewed without tasting. She kept looking at the Cantwell wagon. No sound came from inside. Peter, usually full of talk, was quiet. Emma kept glancing that way, worry pinching her face. Sophie was about to send her for water when Marianne appeared, shawl tight, cheeks red from the cold. She sat beside Sophie and took a cup of thin gruel. They sat in silence by the dying fire. Marianne stirred her gruel but did not drink.
Sophie watched Peder, who had set himself near the remaining embers of the fire, carving a length of oak wood with his pocket knife. His hands moved steady and sure, blade flicking thin shavings into a tidy pile at his feet. When he finished, he stood and came to her, offering the newly carved horse to Otto, who took it with a happy squeal.
"That'll help occupy him," Peder said. "Maybe help keep him out of trouble."
Sophie managed a thin smile. “I always liked to make them things. Toys, mostly,” Peder continued. “Our father said I was wasting time, but not every boy wanted to be a farmer.”
She looked at him, trying to see past the stubble and wind-burned skin. "What did you want to be, then?" Peder turned the knife in his hand, thumb caressing the weathered handle. "I wanted to build things instead of grow them," he said. "I was a blacksmith before I was injured."
"If you want," Peder added, more softly now, "I can show Peter how to set a snare for rabbits. It might help.
Sophie hesitated at the offer, but she nodded. "That would be good. Thank you."
Peder nodded. Turning to Peter, he said, “Do you want to learn how to set a rabbit snare?”
The boy came quickly, eager to learn. Sophie watched them walk away. Something eased inside her. It was not hope, but the knot of worry loosened a little.
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