But now there was a difference in their coming, for they brought their women along. They came to stay.
The young, the old, the middle-aged—none were immune to the dream that drew men to the West. The weak fell by the way, or gave up and went back to their villages and safe streets to huddle frightened with others of their kind, but the strong survived or went down fighting, and those who survived grew even stronger.
It was a time of exploration, of struggle, of titanic men walking a titanic land. It was an age akin to the Homeric or the Elizabethan, and a man bred to either age would have been at home in the West, and would have talked the language of the men about him.
Achilles and Jim Bowie had much in common; Sir Francis Drake and John Coulter or Kit Carson would each have understood the other. They were men of violence all, strong men of strong emotions, men who lived with strength and skill. Ulysses could have marched beside Jedediah Smith, Crockett could have stormed the walls of Troy. Either would have been at home among the crews of Drake, Hawkins, or Frobisher.
Eve Prescott stood by the rail as the canalboat moved slowly along the dark waters; behind her the strange, musical, poetic names were spoken and their sound stirred her blood.
They were wonderful, exciting names, each one the symbol of some wild romance. Santa Fe and Taos, Ash Hollow and the Cross Timbers, the Arkansas, Boggy Depot, the Washita … Cottonwood Creek and the South Fork of the Cimarron … there was a magic in their sound.
The canal banks slid by, sunlight reflected from the staring windows of houses, and then the sudden call would ring out: “Bridge! Bridge! Duck your heads or lose your scalps!”
The great horns blared; from a voice nearby she caught the strange word Arapahoes; beyond it, other voices, all in their separate conversations, sent words that drifted to her ears in a confused medley that nonetheless made music. “I favor the North carbine. Nobody can make a carbine like Simeon North” … “Cheyennes” … “lost his hair” … “Spanish Fork” … “Hal’s patent, by Simeon North” … “percussion rifle? What if you run out of caps? I favor the flintlock … pick up a flint anywheres” … “Comanches” … “river pirates” .. . “Texas” .. . “live off the country” … “fur so thick you wouldn’t believe it” … “thieves everywhere” … “river pirates.”
The horns sounded … “Bridge!” … a whip cracked like a pistol from the towpath … “too far south for Sioux” … “down the Ohio” … “never seen again” … “Bridge!” The horns again, blaring, the sound echoing back from the hills. Sam came up suddenly beside her. “Hey, ain’t you excited, Eve? I wondered where you’d got to. Think of it, Eve, we’ll build rafts and float down the Ohio. Ain’t that something?”
“Yes, Sam. Yes, it is.”
But her thoughts were asking: Would that man she had never seen, that man of whom she dreamed, would he be out there somewhere? In the Ohio country? She looked up at Sam, so eager, so ready for the challenge. Suddenly she felt a sharp pang of fear, so sharp she almost cried out. “Be careful, Sam,” she said, almost whispering it. “Oh, be careful!”
He grinned at her, his eyes dancing. “Careful? What’s there to be careful about?”
Chapter 3
Eve Prescott straightened up from the fire and brushed back a lock of her hair. Her face was hot from the flames and she stood back for a minute, listening to the bubbling of the pot.
The tall trees towered above them, blacker than the night itself, even this night without stars. They were ancient, massive trees … her father, Sam and Zeke could scarcely have reached around the smallest of them with hands joined. The wind moved among the branches, and the fire sputtered briefly … out by the riverbank, not twenty yards away, the water rustled mysteriously. The bright gaiety and easy talk of the Erie Canal lay far behind them. They had left the canal at its terminus in Buffalo and had paid a few dollars for a decrepit two-wheeled cart which would hold all their goods. Together they had pushed and hauled it nearly three hundred miles to the Ohio, and there rafts had been built—they had built one for themselves, and the Harveys, who were traveling with them, had built one.
Now the two rafts were tied to trees near the bank, and in the morning they would be gone again, floating the day long down the river that by now seemed endless. It was a strange life, this traveling. Each day was sufficient unto itself, and as long as they traveled there need scarcely be any thought except for today. Everything else was suspended until their journey was finished. The fire was a comfort. Even here in this clearing by the river’s edge the distances seemed enormous. Sam and pa were rigging a canvas shelter for the night, and ma was cutting slices from a haunch of venison killed that morning by Sam.
Eve was beginning to realize what the wilderness could do to a man. For the first time she became aware of a subtle alteration in the attitudes of her parents toward each other. Ma had always been strong, and had stood upon an equal footing with Zebulon, and even at times superseded him in authority. Now she deferred more to pa. Zebulon went about everything—making camp, chopping wood, and all the other camp duties—with a quiet assurance, a forcefulness she had never noticed before. Never before had Eve realized what a tower of strength he was.
In the wilderness a man grew important, for on his strength others must depend. More than ever she could understand why men loved the wilderness, for it made demands on their strength, on their ingenuity; and they loved the feeling of doing and of accomplishment that the wilderness provided. Eve sat down and took up her book, leaning closer to the flames to see the print better. Lilith came up to the fire, and Eve looked up.
“Lilith … listen to this: ‘Theirs was a poignant parting in the forest. The handsome young backwoodsman carved two hearts on a tree trunk, and then, from ten paces, hurled a knife at the junction of the two hearts—‘ “ “Junction—what’s that mean?”
“It’s where the two hearts come together. Now be quiet and listen: ‘His marksmanship was uncanny. Three times he hurled the knife. “That was for luck,” he said the first time, and “that was for love,” after the second. “That was a prayer, a plea for love undying—“ ‘” And then Eve added, dreamily, “Isn’t that beautiful?”
“I reckon. If anybody ever talks like that.”
“It’s the sentiment, not the talk.”
“You don’t make sense, Eve. You want to be a farmer’s wife, but you’ll never find a farmer who’s the kind of man you want. You don’t really want to marry a farmer.”
“Neither do you.”
“I don’t want anything to do with farms.” Lilith stared at the fire. “I want silk dresses and fine carriages like those we saw back in Albany.” She turned her head to look at Eve. “I want a man to smell good, and I want to go out to eat in fancy places. All I want seems to be back east, yet here we are, going further and further away. But you wait—I’ll have those pretty dresses, and all.”
“You’re only sixteen, Lil. There’s plenty of time. Besides, it’s the man that counts, not where he lives.”
“The man you want doesn’t live, never has, and never will.” “I don’t believe that, Lil. I just can’t believe it. I know how I feel, and I can’t be the only one who feels this way. I want a man who loves me, not just one who needs a wife to do for him. Somewhere there’s a man who feels as I do.” “And you think you’ll find him out west?” Lilith scoffed. “Where else? A man who would think like that would be likely to go west, it seems to me. There’d be poetry in him, and that sort of man would incline toward mountains and forest. As far as farming goes, there’s poetry in farming, too. Hard work, of course, but most things worth doing are hard, and a man who plows the earth, plants seed, and watches his crops grow—I think there’s poetry in that. One time I heard a man say that all real strength comes from the earth, and I believe it.”
“Eve!” Rebecca called. “Watch that stew! Tune to put the onions in!” Zebulon and Sam came up to the fire. “We must keep a sharp lookout tonight, Sam,” Zebulon said. “There’s talk of river pirates and folks murdered for their goods. With the womenfolks to think of, we’ll have to watch special sharp.” “I’ll set the first half of the night, pa. You can set the second half. Those Harveys,” he added, “they sleep too sound for comfort.” He glanced at the trees. “They say where they’re goin’ there’s plains … folks say it’s an altogether different way of livin’. Rich soil they say—deep as a man wants to dig, it’s rich soil.”