The next morning, Preacher gathered the women around him.
“Steals Pony brought news yesterday evenin’,” he told the group. “And it ain’t good, but it’s what we all been expectin’. Bedell’s linked up with his gang and they’re waitin’ on us ’bout a hundred miles ahead. You signed on to go west, and that’s where we’re goin’. Y’all done told me you wasn’t goin’ back so we ain’t even gonna talk about that.
“Bedell wants the wagons and the supplies, and he wants us all dead. He has to kill us, all of us. If he don’t, if just one of us gets through to tell our story, he’ll be a wanted and hunted man the rest of his unnatural life. Y’all let that sink in your heads for a minute or so.”
Preacher then eyeballed each woman for a moment. Their faces were set in grim and unyielding determination. They stood, all dressed in men’s britches and shirts, with pistols shoved down behind their belts, and many of them leaning on their rifles. They bore little resemblance to the women who had left Missouri weeks back. The group seemed small and very insignificant against the vast backdrop of lonely land that stretched for hundreds of miles all around them.
Preacher nodded his head. “All right, ladies. Let’s head west.”
Twice during the next five very long, hot, dusty, and monotonous days Indians were sighted. But the Indians kept their distance and did not show any signs of hostility. That was due in no small part to the size of the wagon train. Word had spread quickly—thanks to Broken Nose and his people—that the train was made up almost entirely of women, and also that the women were savage fighters. Mostly, the Indians were curious. They wanted to see what manner of females these were, who rode, dressed, and fought like men.
Both times Indians were sighted, Steals Pony rode over to talk with them. And both times he returned with the same news: A large band of men waited just up the trail. They had some women with them, too. When the wagons were a day’s distance from where Bedell and the men were supposed to be, Steals Pony left the train to scout ahead.
“They sure picked a piss-poor place to ambush us,” Preacher said to Blackjack. The two men were ranging about a mile ahead of the wagons. “Must be a thousand better places on up ahead.”
“I got me a hunch that the Delaware is gonna come back and tell us the gang pulled out,” Blackjack said. “Them trappers with the bunch got more sense than to try something out here in the open.”
“A body would think that,” Preacher agreed. “Yonder’s Steals Pony comin’. He’s takin’ his time so’s I ’spect you’re right, Blackjack.”
“Gone,” the Delaware informed them. “Ashes are cold. They headed west.”
“You called it right, Blackjack. Now we got to worry for another week or so.” Preacher thought about that for a moment while his friends looked at him and waited. “They want us deeper in,” he finally said. “Somebody finally got through to Bedell that this country is lousy for an ambush. Too bad. I was lookin’ forward to endin’ it right now.”
“Yeah, me too. But it sounds right to me,” Blackjack said, removing his battered hat and scratching his head. When the sickness hit them, all the men had let the ladies cut their hair much shorter than they normally wore it. But oddly enough, no fleas had been found on anyone, and not in any of their clothing or blankets. The sickness still baffled them all.
“Bedell has given up on the supplies,” Steals Pony ventured his opinion. “He is going to content himself with our deaths. So when the ambush comes, it will be the most advantageous place he or his men can plan.”
“You’re right,” Preacher said. “Steals Pony? You been talkin’ more on this trip than I ever heard you ’fore. You’ve said more words in a month and a half or so than I’ve heard you say in twenty years.”
The Delaware smiled. “Maybe I just haven’t had anything to say until now.” He rode off, leaving the men looking puzzled at each other.
“Sometimes you can get more sense out of a Chinaman than you can out of that damn Steals Pony,” Blackjack said.
Preacher just smiled and rode on ahead.
The seemingly endless land stretched out before them, hot and dusty. The mules and the oxen plodded on. They were making good time, and Preacher did not push them. They rested when necessary, and made camp early enough so that everybody had good light to do their chores and get supper fixed. The weather held fair, albeit hot and extremely dusty, and so far only a few iron rims had wobbled off and no axles had broken. The shoes on the animals had held, and no hooves had split, but that would come later on. And the Indians continued to leave them alone.
Preacher sent Steals Pony on ahead again, to scout for signs of Bedell and his gang. But the Delaware came up empty. It was as if Bedell and his band of cutthroats had dropped off the face of the earth.
“Our luck ain’t that good,” Snake groused.
The wagons rolled on and the men and women did not encounter another human. They seemed to be lost on a barren, lifeless planet, void of others like them. Many of the women began to wonder if they’d ever see a stand of trees again.
The wagons crossed the Laramie range and made the Buttes. From there they headed slightly south and west toward what would someday be called Independence Rock. In the years to come, thousands of pioneers would chisel their names or initials into the rocks overlooking yet another barren stretch of this westward route. They had left the murky, lumbering Platte behind them now, and few of the women missed it, although it did provide water for the livestock.
And there was still no sign of Bedell or his gang. Preacher knew there was no point in his going out or sending Snake or Blackjack to look for Bedell. If Steals Pony couldn’t pick up a trail, no one could.
A few days later, the snowcapped mountains began looming up in front of them. Soon the women were shivering, although it was the summertime. Preacher smiled and said, “This here’s called Ice Slough. Get your axes and shovels out and dig down about a foot. They’s solid ice under the sod. Makes your water taste a whole heap better. Go ahead. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. We’re seven to eight thousand feet up, ladies. We’re on the crest of the Divide. This here’s the Wind River Range.”
The ladies started digging and chopping and squealing with delight at the ice under the sod.
Preacher waited until supper and then told them, “We’ll go through what’s known as the South Pass. A trapper named Stuart found it back ’bout thirty years ago. After that, we’ll take the cutoff,” Preacher added, conscious of Snake, Blackjack, and Steals Pony looking at him. “Day or two past South Pass, we’ll stop and fill every barrel and bucket we got, and I mean brim full.”
“Are you sure about this, Preacher?” Steals Pony asked.
“Yeah. I’m sure. I don’t see no point in pullin’ an extra hundred miles.”
“What’s the problem with this cutoff?” Eudora asked.
“No water,” Preacher bluntly told her and the other ladies. “And I mean, no water at all. It’s a good eighty or ninety miles from the cutoff to the Green. It’s a hard pull, but we can do it. I warn you all now, it sure ain’t no pretty route. Not much grass, lots of ravines, gravel, and dried-up lakes. Alkali lakes. A lot of it is flat as a tabletop, and probably comes close to resemblin’ hell. But we’ll make up for a lot of the time we lost.” He looked into the tanned and windburned faces of the women. They were all leaned down and toughened up. “Are you ladies all game for it?”
“We’re game,” they said in unison.
Snake smiled, then chuckled for a moment. “Wait ’til we get to Soda Springs. The water there tastes like beer and if you add a little sugar to it and maybe some syrup if you got any, it tastes like lemonade.”
The ladies all laughed.
“It’s true.” Blackjack backed up his friend. “They’s all sorts of wonders out here.”