The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [16]
“You … you shot me,” he said. “My leg.”
“A mere flesh wound,” Mama said, but she sounded relieved.
He moaned loudly. “Meant you no harm,” he said. “Haven’t eaten in two days. My leg!”
“Are you armed?” Mama asked.
“No,” he said. I could see blood through one of the holes in his pants. “If I had a gun, I’d have traded it for chicken. Just wanted a little food. Thought you were tramps too.”
“Do we look like tramps?” Mama asked. She pulled on her jacket, straightened her shoulders. Actually, I thought we did, mud all over us, hats as flat as grinding stones. Mama didn’t wait for his answer. “Come along, Clara. We’ll bandage him up. He can’t do any harm hobbling.”
His mouth dribbled hardtack Mama gave him. I tore up one of his shirts to use as a bandage. It was a flesh wound, but I was sure it hurt. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for two women alone out here?”
“You can see we can handle ourselves,” I said. I hated defending my mother’s actions.
At the river I found a stick that would work to help him hobble along to the next town. Having injured him, we felt obligated to take care of him, even though his wobbly ways delayed us. At the next train station, he said he’d wait and see if he couldn’t get one of the other tramps who rode the rails to give him a lift. Mama left him an egg.
“I don’t think we should be so hasty in the future,” I said as we walked away.
“What? Why not? He’ll tell the other tramps that the two women walkers aren’t to be toyed with. He could have been trouble. You must do whatever is necessary to protect your family, Clara. This trip should prove that to you if nothing else.”
I knew my mother was strong, brave even. She’d sued the city of Spokane over an injury. I’d taken care of her and my brothers and sisters while she healed. But shooting the tramp wasn’t brave; it was … impulsive, just like this trip. It had cost us precious time, caused the man pain, and we’d likely sleep under a willow, drenched in the rain, because of Mama’s hasty action. One needed to think things through. That’s what this trip would prove to me.
We stepped aside for trains rumbling along the tracks. I held my hand to my hat and turned my face away from the black smoke that billowed as engines chugged past. Passengers sped by us, blobs of color in the windows. Surprised looks washed over faces flashing by. A man in the caboose waved. Strangers, all of them. Yet we were dependent on strangers to see us through. That’s what Mama said. We couldn’t live on hardtack and eggs forever. Everyone we’d encounter would be a stranger. Perhaps even my mother.
EIGHT
Sunflowers in Boise
JUNE 1896
Soggy sunflowers hung their heads over a fence outside of Boise City. Rain poured down as it had all but five days since we’d left. It’s good when God gives us great beginnings, because soon after come the downpours of discouragement. One needs the memory of good starts to carry on, and we’d had that one good, dry day. Since then, we’d crossed flooded streams, stood beneath leaky storefront porches in cowboy towns like Pendleton, hoping the rains would ease. Dirt paths became streams and I fell more than once, mud caking on my skirt and building up on the soles of my shoes. “At least we don’t lack for wash water,” Mama said, holding her hands out to the rainy heavens.
We’d come only four hundred fifty miles in six weeks of walking. It was taking us too long. The leather bags weighted us. The mud, rain, snow in the Blue Mountains, tramps, and need to earn our meals by washing dishes or laundry had all slowed us. So much for my mother’s planning. The only good thing so far was the ample time I had to daydream about Forest.
Boise City ended at a railroad stub line, and trains backed into the city, then headed out and south, so following the rails meant we’d have to backtrack part of this road. But we had to go into the town, find work, and get new shoes, carpetbags to replace the leather. Boise was our first capital city, so we needed a governor’s signature too.
Calf-high