The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [15]
“They don’t understand,” Mama told me. “As we move east, we’ll have a better reception.” We munched on hardtack in the depot and took turns watching the door so we could squeeze rain from our woolen coats by holding them in front of the potbellied stove. “At least we have a roof over our heads,” Mama said, putting the bag under her head as a pillow. I slept that night wondering at my mother’s ability to look for the good in things.
We decided early on not to stop to eat according to the sun—which we hadn’t seen much of—but rather to be guided by our stomachs. Eggs were cheap and filling and could be eaten at any meal. Often when I ate them, I recalled Martin Siverson’s comments, or the women who closed doors in our faces, and the food coated my stomach with new uncertainty. Rain greeted us in Walla Walla, Washington, but the Walla Walla Union ran a long article about our journey, mentioning Mayor Belt’s endorsement and saying we were headed on to Boise City. We sold several photographs to sympathizing women and replenished our reserves, buying hard rolls and even a pat of butter because Mama said we needed fat to keep going. A family offered us a sweet-smelling bed above the horses in their barn. The sun came out one day and steamed our wet wool clothes. We slept mostly in the railroad stations, which were about nine miles apart. It was how we kept track of our daily distance. Well, that and the maps of the railroads we carried with us.
My feet scraped along the Union Pacific outside of Umatilla, Oregon, and I remembered reading Astoria, a history book written by Washington Irving about the Astor fur-trading expedition coming this way, the first big cross-country expedition west after Lewis and Clark returned. There’d been one woman in that party, a Madam Dorion, and she’d walked or ridden a horse from St. Louis, Missouri, all this way, heading to the Pacific. At least Madam Dorion had the luxury of traveling with her husband and sixty men. She’d also brought her two young boys with her instead of leaving them behind.
Red willows bushed up beside the Umatilla River, which ran right through the Umatilla Indian reservation. Those Indians had been friendly in the book I’d read, had helped Madam Dorion when she got into trouble. Nevertheless, I hoped we wouldn’t encounter any and said as much to Mama.
“Me either,” she said, for the first time not minimizing my concern.
We both heard the clatter of rocks at the same time. “What’s that?” she said. I saw the tramp first and pointed.
He was shorter than both my mother and I but much stockier. He wore baggy pants with holes in the knees. His pockets bulged, and an old tweed jacket covered what looked like two shirts. The coat was stained with spots big enough to be seen even though he was a good twenty yards from us. He must have been sleeping in the bushes as we walked by. Our chattering probably woke him up. Clumps of mud hung on his pants, but mud hung on us as well. I didn’t know if he was a stygging, a nasty man, or one like us, walking the rails.
Mama put the grip in front of her and dug into her stride, saying, “Keep walking. Faster.”
The tramp began a singsong cry of, “La-a-a-dies. Let’s have lu-u-u-nch. La-a-a-dies, let’s have lu-u-u-nch.” I twisted to look. He appeared frazzled more than dangerous.
“Ignore him,” Mama said, urging me along with her hands when I turned.
A stone inside my shoe rubbed against my heel. I nearly twisted my ankle turning to see how fast he approached. I picked up my long skirt, wishing we had the reform dresses to wear right now.
“Leave us be or I’ll shoot,” Mama said. I could tell by the direction of her voice that she’d stopped. Does she have her Smith & Wesson out?
“Don’t … don’t …”
I heard the gunshot, smelled the powder, watched the man fall.
“You shot him,” I screamed. “Mama! You shot him!”
“I gave him fair warning.”
“Maybe he was hungry,” I said, running past her to him.
“Then he should have said so.”
“He said he wanted lunch.”
Mama joined me. He lay on his side, still. A light rain drizzled.
I leaned