he next morning John William woke to the sounds of life bustling around him. Muted conversations drifted through the dark morning as his fellow campers loaded their wagons and harnessed their teams in an unofficial race to be the first to ferry across the Snake River.
But John William felt no need for such haste. Getting Gloria to move in the mornings was a daily battle under the best of circumstances. Last night they stayed up talking long past midnight, and he thought he'd heard her up with the babies even after that. This morning he'd do well to get her out of the wagon at all, let alone to rush around and break camp and wait with fifteen other families for their chance to cross the river. No, today would be a day of leisure. They hadn't spent one single day in the same place since leaving Silver Peak. As long as they stayed outside the adobe walls of Fort Hall, last night's ugly business could be forgotten; most of the witnesses would be ferried away by noon.
Perhaps today he would follow Glorias decadent example and sleep past dawn. The ground here wasn't any more comfortable than the ground anywhere, but he turned on his side, shifted around a bit, and waited for the noise around him to drift away Maybe this was the morning she would get up first, get the coffee going, walk over and nudge him awake with the toe of her little black boot.
He opened his eyes for one last look and realized something was wrong. He raised himself on one elbow, rubbed the last of the bleary sleep from his eyes. Maybe it had been just a trick of the shadows. He sat straight up and looked again. Gloria's boots were gone.
He flung off his blanket and walked over to the back of the wagon.
“Gloria?” he whispered through the narrow canvas opening, just as he had countless mornings. But this morning there was no grumbled reply. He drew back the flap and looked inside. She wasn't there. He placed one foot on the step and leaned in, reaching into the dark until his hand landed on the soft head of one of the babies, warm with sleep. He groped around until he found the other, also sleeping. Left undisturbed, they might not wake for a couple of hours.
John William took up his bedding and snapped it, scattering particles of dust and grass, before rolling it up and tucking it just inside the back of the wagon. He built up a small fire and got some water boiling for coffee—she would want a cup when she came back—and took down the basket of Indian flat bread he'd traded for last night. Between each little chore, he alternated between checking on the babies and scanning the area for any sight of her, nodding a silent “good morning” to anyone who chose to do the same.
He'd been up for nearly an hour when he saw the boy who had offered to water his horses the day before. This morning the boy was hitching teams and seemed uninterested in coming over to John William—obviously not in need of his services—until John William held up one impressive silver coin.
“Ya need something, mister?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the coin.
John William bent his knees until he was eye-level with the boy. “Go down to the ferry landin'. Find out if they've made any crossin's yet this mornin'.”
“That it?”
“For now.”
The boy took off toward the river. John William checked in on the children one last time. Confident they were soundly sleeping, he headed toward the fort's large wooden gate. Just as there had been the night before, a slovenly soldier reclined at his post.
“State yer business here,” the soldier said, giving John William a disinterested sideways glance.
“You been here all night?”
“Mostly”
“You see a woman come in here? Maybe a few hours ago?”
The soldier cocked back his head to look John William straight in the eye and smiled. “What kind of woman?”
“Blonde hair, wearin'"—he closed his eyes “—a blue dress.”
“Blonde hair, blue dress? Nope. Think I'd remember that.”
“And you been here all night?”
“Like I said. Mostly.”
He was lying, John William was sure, and nothing would feel better than to slam him up against the crumbling wall of the fort and pound the truth out of him. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side, but the memory of Gloria last night, distraught at being the cause of his violent outburst, quelled his anger. Without another word, he returned to his wagon to wait with the children.
Danny was awake first, as usual. He wasn't crying, but when John William lifted the flap, he noticed the boy's feet kicking through his covers, and when he whispered “Good mornin', Danny boy," the infant turned and looked straight at him. “Your ma's not here right now, son, but I've got you.”
He lifted the child out of the wagon, sat down on one of the campstools, and relieved the baby of his soaking diaper. For a few minutes it was just the two of them seemingly alone in the world. John William looked into Danny's brown eyes and wondered how Gloria could ever bring herself to abandon this child. “Don't you worry son,” he said. “I'll find her.” Then he closed his eyes and prayed, Father, let her be safe.
“Hey, mister?” John William opened his eyes and saw the freckle-faced boy standing, breathless, as if he hadn't stopped running since being dispatched on his errand. “The first ferry's just now leavin'.”
“Thank you.” John William gave a curt nod and stood.
“But she weren't on it. I asked, and the captain said there wasn't no ladies goin’ alone. And she ain't standin’ around waitin’ on the next one, neither.”
“How did you—”
“I saw you was walkin’ around like you was lookin’ for some-thin'. Didn't see her, so 1 figured that was it. Now I gotta go or my pall skin me!”
John William cradled Danny in one arm and reached the other out to grab the boy by the shoulder. “Did you talk to anyone else?”
“Nah,” the boy said, shrugging. “Don't figure it's any of their business.”
“Thank you, again,” John William said. He let go of the boy's shoulder and extended his hand. Beaming, the boy took it, and they solemnly shook hands before he turned and tore back toward the river.
So she hadn't crossed. And she was nowhere in the surrounding campsite. John William looked at the worn path that led up to Fort Hall. Certainly she wouldn't have gone off on foot; Gloria could be coaxed off her wagon seat for only about a half a mile a day. He smiled, remembering her laziness, now grateful for it. There was only one answer, and he wouldn't ask the guard at the gate.
The same blind Indian woman was sitting just inside the gate when John William barreled through, a baby clutched in each arm.
“You have come for your woman?” she said, causing him to stop dead center in front of her.
“What did you say?”
She beckoned him to come closer, and as he leaned toward her, she reached up and took Kate out of his grasp. When she was settled in the woman's lap, he handed over Danny.
“Now you can go get her.”
“Is she safe? Is she all right?”
The old woman shrugged. “I just hear talk about the pretty lady Not good talk.”
“Where should I look?”
“The big cooking fire.”
John William stood and looked around the inside of the fort, seeing it for the first time in daylight as the sun was just now streaming over the eastern wall. There was no fire, but in the far southeast corner of the fort he did see a large ring of stones containing what must be the charred wood and ashes from last night's feast. The wall behind it was lined with a long, narrow two-story structure made of tightly fitted logs. Every few feet, the logs had been hewn to accommodate a door, and a wooden walkway, suspended by ropes attached to the walls, allowed passage to the single door on the second floor.
A small crowd of men stood just outside one of the doors, laughing and jabbing each other. John William headed straight for them. With each step their conversation became less animated, and when he was fully in their midst, they did little more than stare at their boots.
“I'm lookin’ for the woman I came in here with last night,” John William said.
“Ain't seen no woman,” one of the men said, not looking up from the steaming mug he held in his hand.
“She has blonde hair. Wearin’ a blue dress.”
“Don't tell me she's your wife,” another man said, sending the others into a fit of laughter barely stifled behind their dirty hands.
John William stepped back from the group and surveyed the building. “Gloria!” he shouted, fully expecting her to come to one of the doors. When she didn't, he stepped back a little farther and shouted a little louder, “Gloria!”
“Ah, now ain't that a shame," the man with the steaming mug said. “He ain't taught her yet to come runnin’ when he hollers. He oughter try whistlin’ her up a bit.” He brought his fingers to his lips, but before he could produce the first shrill note, John William shoved him aside, knocking him and his mug to the ground.
John William knocked exactly once on the first door before grabbing the handle and throwing it open. Inside, the walls were lined with bunk beds, stacked two high, and nothing else. He strode to the next door, opened it, and found it to be identical, except for the one man sleeping on the bottom bunk who cursed the intrusion and turned his back to the door. The third room was the same, empty, as was the fourth. He had reached the end of the building and was standing underneath the wooden stairs that led to the second floor. He took to the stairs, grabbing the handrail to steady himself as he felt the flimsy structure sway beneath his heavy step. The walkway proved to be equally unstable, and he feared that ripping open the door would send him falling over the railing. Instead, he gripped the latch tightly and pulled; this one was locked.
“Gloria." he shouted again, leaning one hand on the wall to steady himself as he pounded the door with the other. “Open this door!”
He continued to pound, not caring about the pain shooting through his hand each time his fist hit the wood. He hated the ridiculous little walkway that held him there, suspended, unable to rush at the door and break it down. All he could do was stand and shout and knock, the strength of his voice and his fist soon depleting.
John William was just about to deliver another blow when the door swung open, barely giving him enough time to stop his fist from colliding with the pale young face of the man who stood on its threshold.
“Listen here, fellow,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “she didn't say nothing about being nobody's wife.”
“Get out," John William growled. He stepped aside to allow the man through the doorway, before going into the room.
This one was larger than the others downstairs, running the entire length of the building. Four square windows were cut into the longer walls, and though they were covered with ragged shutters, piercing streams of morning light shone through. Bed frames, probably long unused since none of them had any sort of mattress or bedding, lined the walls. Up against the short wall at the end of the room, just behind the door, was another bed. Still no pillows or blankets, but there was a mattress. And Gloria was on it.
“Go away," she said. She was lying with her back to him, and she didn't turn when she spoke.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“What does it look like?” She sat up and turned to face him. Her hair was loose, not soft as it usually was in the mornings, but as if it had been torn from the remnant of the braid that trailed down her back. Her lips were swollen, her whole face somewhat distorted—partly due to her sneering expression, but there was something else, too. The blue dress was wrinkled, the top buttons undone and the skirt matted as if—
Hours ago he was sitting with this woman, holding her hands, praying for the right words to speak to her soul, praying in the next breath that God would keep his1 thoughts pure, guard him from ever thinking of her like this. He felt bile rise up his throat, and he turned and spat on the floor.
“Those men down there,” he said, choking on the words, “were they already done with you? Or just waitin’ their turn?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No. No, I don't.” He went to one of the windows that faced the interior of the fort and opened the shutter, bathing the dark room in new light. “They're all gone now, anyway” He walked back to her and held out his hand.
“I'm not leaving, MacGregan.”
“Stop talkin’ such nonsense.”
“Don't sound so surprised,” Gloria stood to face him. “This is what I am, MacGregan. This is what I was born to be. You saw that last night. I wasn't alone for two minutes before that man knew exactly who 1 was. What 1 was.”
“Exactly, Gloria. What you were. In the past. But this,” he waved toward the bed, “this was your choosin'. This wasn't no mother forcin’ you to sell your body, or some piece of dirt bringin’ up bad memories. This was you, Gloria. This was you walkin’ away from your child. Tradin’ everythin’ I've tried to give you. And for what?”
“To show you the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That people don't ever really change, John. I can't ever be anything different.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Gloria! I've told you, with God's help—”
“Stop with that!” She balled up her fists and hit him square in the chest, surprising him with her strength. “Just stop it! You proved it last night. God never really changes a person.”
“Don't say that.”
“He doesn't! You said so yourself. You promised never to fight again, that God had changed you. And then last night…”
“I explained—”
“All it took was me. You abandoned a promise you made to God because of me. How can I live with that?”
“And how am I to live knowin’ I brought you here?”
“You can't save me, John. You never could.”
He looked at her, standing in the perfect square of morning light, and realized she spoke the truth. He'd taken her away from Jewell's, treated her with respect, fought for her honor, and the first chance she got, she'd thrown it all straight back in his face.
“I won't force you to come with me, Gloria.”
“You couldn't if you wanted to.”
“And Danny?”
“You made a promise to me, remember?”
He did. Now, John William searched Gloria's face for some hint of the same defiant spirit that had fueled her that day in Silver Peak when she had bargained so valiantly for the future of her child. But it was gone. Though her gaze held his, her eyes were devoid of their usual spark of humor. Her face was set in a grim, passive expression, lips closed but not pursed. It seemed the few hours spent in this room had slowly drained the life out of her, and her outburst against him was her final gasping breath. If, after all he'd done, she could resign herself to this fate, so could he.
“Good-bye then.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the suspended walkway, finding it much easier to hold his balance when he wasn't striding in a blind rage. The crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs had dispersed, but had not disappeared, and John William found himself the subject of scrutiny and whispers as he walked toward the gate.
The old Indian woman was still there, holding her court at the fort's entrance, but she was not alone. Danny lolled contentedly in the woman's lap, and several little naked, brown children scampered all around and over her. Next to her sat a younger woman, beautiful with her rich black hair and distinct Shoshone features, with a colorful blanket draped over her shoulders.
“You are back?” the old woman said at the sound of John William's footstep.
“I am.”
“And did you find your woman?”
“I did.”
The old woman closed her eyes and nodded her head. “This,” she said, gesturing to the younger woman beside her, “is my granddaughter. These are her children.”
“And Kate? My daughter? Where is she?”
The old woman reached over and pulled the blanket from her granddaughter's shoulder, showing her to be bared to the waist, with Kate nursing at her breast.
John William averted his eyes, turning his head toward the barracks behind him just long enough to see Gloria's face disappear from the window
“She was hungry,” the old woman said.
John William ventured a glimpse through hooded eyes and, seeing the blanket fully in place, offered his thanks to both women, amazed at how quickly the Lord provided.
Gloria watched the whole scene unfold from the little square window cut into the barrack wall. She was surprised when John William hadn't come for her at the break of dawn. And when she first heard his voice calling out her name, she was even more shocked to hear the level of anger in it. The pounding on the door, now that was to be expected, though she had hoped to see the man in the room with her thrown out over the walkway's railing. But she was prepared to settle for a simple toss out the door before John William scooped her up off the bed and carried her back to the wagon.
Instead, he politely stood aside and let the man go. He offered her no pity, no chastisement. Only his pious disdain and then…acceptance? Almost as if he wasn't surprised at all.
She watched him now, still walking. Not one glance over his shoulder. He meant to leave her here.
Gloria leaned against the window and drew back in pain. Hours past time for her to nurse, her breasts swelled uncomfortably against the fabric of her blue dress.
John William was now at the gate, talking to that same old Shoshone woman who cared for the children last night. She saw one of the babies—Danny, she thought—nestled snugly in the woman's lap, but Kate was nowhere to be seen. Then the old woman whisked the blanket off the shoulders of the younger woman next to her, and Gloria grabbed the open shutter to keep from collapsing. Even from here she could see Kate's tiny pink mouth latched onto the Shoshone woman, and the sight of it brought a new rush of milk to her already engorged breasts. For a brief moment, John William turned, looked straight at her, and Gloria knew she had been replaced.
She crumpled to the floor. The room, though full of fresh morning air and quite chilly just a while ago, was suddenly insufferably hot. She had to get out. She crawled over to the little green case she'd brought with her and took out her hairbrush. Loosening her braid, she raked her fingers through the plait and brought the brush up to smooth the curls. Lifting her arms above her head proved too painful, however, so she settled for two long braids resting over her shoulders.
“Like a little Shoshone myself,” she said, dropping her brush back into the case and snapping it shut.
Gloria grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself up. She bent to pick up the green case, stood straight again, and realized it hurt much less to slump a little. She gripped the door latch, took a deep breath, and let the door slowly drift open. The first step over the threshold was fairly simple, once she grabbed the handrail to steady her step. She continued down the walkway and the stairs, ignoring the comments from the men gathered underneath.
At the last step, she set a straight course for John William and the babies, never looking back.
The old woman must have heard her steps, for she said something to John William, who turned and met her gaze, pulling her toward him with what she hoped was a genuine smile. He was holding one of the little Native children, and as Gloria drew closer, the child reached out and touched one of Gloria's braids.
“Pretty isn't it?” John William said, and all the lewd comments of last night and this morning disappeared.
“Please," Gloria said, dropping her case at John William's feet and reaching for Danny, “I need my son.”
The old woman smiled and held Danny up.
Grimacing, Gloria shifted Danny's yeight to one arm and reached into the pocket of her skirt. The old Shoshone woman's hands were still outstretched, and Gloria placed a handful of coins in the open palm. Here. “she said. “For your trouble.”
John William returned to the wagon, holding Kate in one arm and Gloria's green case in the other. Strapped to his back were the supplies he'd just traded for—flour and coffee, potatoes and salt pork. Enough to last them a few more weeks, anyway. He stopped short when he got to the campsite, a little surprised himself at the comfort he felt at the sight of Gloria's boots dropped on the ground. He deposited his bundle right next to the boots before picking them up and placing them on the wagon step.
“Is that you, MacGregan?” her voice called from behind the canvas.
“None other.” He lifted the flap a bit and peered inside.
She looked better, rested. Danny was sleeping, curled up against her.
“Is this what's goin’ to happen then, Gloria? Am I just goin’ to wake up every momin’ or so and wonder where you're off to?”
“I'm so sorry”
“I was worried.”
“I know.”
He dropped the flap and started to open the bundle of supplies, but her voice beckoned him again. He couldn't make out the words muffled through the canvas, so he stood straight and opened the flap.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you would ever forgive me.”
“You don't have to ask that, Gloria,” he said. “It's not for me to forgive.”