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Riley doesn’t respond. We continue without speaking, the silence between us punctuated by the scuff of our footfalls and the buzz of wildlife. A small animal scurries off as we near the crest of the hill. At the top, Riley puts her hands on her hips. Her elbow brushes against my abdomen, sending a jolt over my skin. She flinches and steps away.
“There’s no valley here. There’s barely even a depression. Maybe it was bigger back then, but if the storm passed right by Augie’s cabin and swept everything up, it probably didn’t suddenly change direction in such a small amount of space. It would have hit this mound head-on.”
“So?” I ask.
“So, if the land spout was strong enough to grab up Augie, why didn’t it take any of the pioneers?”
“I dunno.” The familiar clank of a cowbell echoes. “Lunchtime,” I say.
Riley nods and gazes at the wagons. “You know, there’s a much more realistic explanation.”
“What’s that?” I ask, letting gravity propel me down the three-stride hill.
Riley skids down after me. “Augie died—maybe naturally or maybe it was foul play. Either way, someone buried his body in an unmarked grave and then a bunch of desperate pioneers probably cleaned him out.”
I wonder why I never thought of that before. I guess I’ve heard the story so many times, I never bothered to really think about it. “That’s actually pretty logical,” I say.
“Of course it is,” Riley says with an edge to her voice. “There’s more to this Prairie Princess than meets the eye.”
Truth is, I’m actually beginning to believe it.
CHAPTER 9
Riley
AFTER WE LEAVE Mather’s Field, we come to a fork in the road and the wagon train leader guides us along the northern route. The covered wagon’s canvas glows bright white in the afternoon sun and a few puffy cumulus clouds dot the brilliant blue sky. It’s beautiful out here, surrounded by all this nature, but I just can’t bring myself to enjoy it.
Back in California, I’d probably be basking in the first beach day of summer break. I reach an arm out of the wagon to feel the sun and the cool breeze on my bare skin. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the sound of the waves lapping against the shore and see the palm trees swaying in the warm, windy gusts. But my toes wiggle in my stiff new shoes instead of the soft, sun-warmed sand. The creak of the wagons fills in for the screech of seagulls. The taste of salty air is replaced with dust. The familiar ocean brine scent fades to the foreign smell of sweaty oxen and prairie grass.
My forehead brushes against the rough canvas wagon cover and I sigh.
Mom and Dad, still knee-deep in conversation at the front of the wagon, are having a blast. Mom snaps photos with her phone while she nods and chats. I look away when she tries to get a candid of me. Dad leans back against the side wall of the wagon, his legs crossed at the ankles, and stares out the open side flaps, throwing in a comment here and there. Every so often, he gives me a thumbs-up and an encouraging nod, as if he thinks he’ll eventually wear me down.
I drift into a state of numbness, my eyes glazing over at the passing vegetation as I zone out. Eventually, the wagon train pulls into a flat area that looks like every other flat area around us, and the oxen come to a halt.
“Welcome to Hunt’s Meadow,” Wild Wanda says as she unhooks the tailgate. “This, here, will be our campsite for the night. Felix and me’ll get started on cookin’ up some grub over a campfire, while the rest of you’se get your sleepin’ situation sorted. Captain Walker, Ty, and Colton”—she nods to Tall, Dark, and Irksome—“will help with pitchin’ the tents after they’ve seen to the animals. For those of you who’ll be sleepin’ in the wagons, we’ll convert the benches to beds right quick after everything else is complete.”
Colton, huh?
The name fits.
Twilight is still a few hours off, but the sun casts the meadow in a golden glow. A pair of red-winged blackbirds settle on a shrub nearby to watch us, tilting their heads curiously at the intrusion on their space. They remind me of a pair of mourning doves that used to build a nest in the eaves above the garage door every year. Sometimes I would sit on the counter next to the dryer and stare out the laundry-room window, watching them hard at work while I made quick study sketches in my notebook. I wonder if the roles are reversed now—will the red-winged blackbirds watch us humans toil to build our night nests?
Toil we do.
The McCreadys and Stones secured the makeshift wagon beds when they reserved their spots, so we—the Thomas family of four—will be bunking in tents. As we follow Captain Walker to the supply wagon to grab our things, I spot Colton chatting with an old man with binoculars. I only catch a short glimpse of his Stetson-shadowed square-jawed smile as his soft, low laugh carries on the breeze. The minute I feel myself softening just a smidge, I remind myself that all he sees when he looks at me is a helpless tourist.
We load up with the bulky canvas tents, fold-up aluminum cots, and fiber-filled sleeping bags we’ve been assigned, and follow Ty to our homestead for the night—a small area across from the wagons, with a fieldstone fire ring in the center.
Wild Wanda and Felix busy themselves setting up the campfire and assembling the cooking tripod. My stomach rumbles at the prospect of food, but I’m still not convinced that the historically inspired Oregon Trail cuisine they plan to serve out here will be any good. It’s not that I’m picky, and lunch was decent enough, but the pioneer diet was pretty limited and consisted largely of bacon and bread. I never realized how much I took for granted all the fresh fruits and veggies we had access to in California.
“We’ll pitch our tent here,” Dad says, pointing to a general area with his finger. “And you kids can pitch yours over there.”
Caleb pulls open the tent bag to reveal an off-white canvas wrapped tightly around smooth wooden tent poles with metal connectors and a handful of metal stakes. This is nothing like the tents I’m used to camping in, with flexible plastic poles, a zip flap, and a lightweight nylon cover.
“Oh, wow.” I cough as a billowing cloud of dust unfurls from the dense canvas. A few moth carcasses drop to the ground, too desiccated to identify their species. “This thing is ancient.”
Theoretically, I know how to assemble a tent. First, erect the frame, then cover the frame with the canvas. It’s the same basic principle for any outdoor shelter, and thanks to a variety of summer camps, I’ve built my fair share of lean-tos, wedge tents, and, once upon a time, an authentic Sioux-style teepee. I’ve even spent the night in a yurt under giant sequoias. But this thing looks like it might have actually come from the Civil War era, and since it’s a wedge tent, we have to flip our approach by spreading out the canvas before we erect the frame.
