Crossing Purgatory by Gary Schanbacher Page A

they tried to dry off under the canvas of the wagon covers and eat a cold supper, cornbread and slices of dried apple. A lucky few had managed to keep bedrolls dry, but for most of the party, rain had found its way through slickers, between folds and splits in the wagon canvas, onto blankets and spare clothing and into boots. Night passed without fire, damp and shivering. Morning brought heavy drizzle and lifting skies, and they were able to light fires that put up dense smoke from sodden wood. They laid over all that day waiting for the creek to subside. Storms still raged to the northwest, and the creek ran fast and brown.
    Midday, Thompson hiked to a rise and sat on his haunches and scanned the middle and far distances for game. In the gray light, the horizon blended into sky, so that he was unsure just where one ended and the other began. The grass, tall and returning to a light green from the rain, melted into the gray of the sky so that Thompson had the feeling he was staring into a flat, dimensionless sheet hanging from a line. Then, not a hundred yards away, a great beast stood from its wallow as if rising out of the prairie itself. The buffalo shook its head and its thick beard released a spray of mud and water. It started off at an angle toward the creek as another buffalo crested a small hill that Thompson had not even realized was there, and ambled after the first. Thompson kept low and maneuvered for a shot, but the animals moved with a surprising speed given their bulk and they entered the creek some hundred-fifty yards above him. The current mid-stream was fast and angry, and it pushed the buffalo downstream as they plowed forward so that they left the water on the far bank almost directly across from Thompson. They stood not forty yards from him, shaking the water from their mantles and pawing at the gravel of the creek bank. Thompson watched the two bulls. He could have taken them with his rifle but had no way of knowing when he might be able to retrieve the meat, so he passed up the shot and just watched them, all shag and sinew, until they climbed the creek bank and walked off into the high grass to the west. He wondered how they’d appeared from nowhere. An empty prairie one second and two behemoths filling his vision the next. Wondered how to develop eyesight in this strange land. A new perception required?
    The grass still held the rain so that by the time he returned to the company early in the evening, Thompson again was soaked. He sparked his campfire to life, fed it dry grass he pulled from under the shelter of the wagon, then small twigs, then limbs. He removed his outer tunic and propped it on two sticks close to the fire to dry, and pulled on his one spare shirt. Afterward, he thought to inform Captain Upperdine about the buffalo, but he saw Obadiah talking with him. They looked in earnest discussion and rather than disturb them, he walked to the Lights’ wagon and found Hanna at the back gate, tending to Martha. She’d wrapped her in a blanket against the dampness and had nestled her on a straw mattress. Hanna had placed a camphor poultice on the child’s chest and was mopping her forehead with a wet cloth.
    â€œA little sage tea,” she said, to herself. She hadn’t noticed Thompson approach.
    â€œI’ll watch her,” he said. She started at his voice.
    â€œI’ll just brew up a little sage tea,” she repeated, “and return shortly.”
    Martha appeared feverish to Thompson. Her hand was at her throat, massaging it. Her neck looked swollen. He stroked her head. He cooed, and then clucked like a chicken and Martha looked up at him and giggled. A little.
    â€œCaught a chill from the rain, is all,” Hanna said, coming up beside him, placing her hands to the small of her back, arching. A grimace. Her pregnant belly swollen. Would she birth on the trail, Thompson wondered?
    â€œShe’ll be fine,” Thompson assured, and nodded to Obadiah