The Oregon Trail by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2024-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

In short order, the wagons pulled away from the Green River, angling to intercept the southwest trail they would follow to Fort Bridger, another five-day drive, approximately. Will’s wagon was halfway back in the line; Clint’s wet buckskins were hanging on the back flap. So were his moccasins, and Biscuit’s saddle blanket was lying on the canvas cover.

There was no sign on the trail of the recent passage of another wagon train, so they could assume the train that Melody started out with was now behind them. Even in his present state of undress, Clint was insistent upon performing the job his uncle hired him to do. So he rode out well ahead of the wagons to find a place to camp that they would reach in about three hours’ time. The spot he settled on might push them a little past the usual five o’clock quitting time, but it was far superior to the first one he considered. That one was a fairly busy stream with some firewood and poor grazing. But it was the best he had come upon in a stretch of mostly dry, treeless plain. When he decided to look a little farther, he was surprised to find a full-flowing creek with more than ample grazing. He could tell that Biscuit preferred it by far, so he decided it to be the official campsite for that night.

Since he was quite a way ahead of Scofield and the wagons at that point, he decided to explore the creek even farther. So he rode downstream until coming to a small, wooded area where a stream emptied into the creek. He suspected it was the stream he originally thought he was going to have to settle for as the campsite. It caused him to think of Ash Hollow back on the Platte. For like Ash Hollow, this little oasis at the confluence of the stream and the creek offered a refreshing surprise from the dusty, dry trail between the Green River and Fort Bridger. He couldn’t understand why it was such a surprise. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he had been there before. They camped there the year before. How could he forget it? He had killed a deer there. Only one thing could make it perfect, he thought.

* * *

“I expect we oughta be seein’ Clint about now,” Scofield said to Spud. “The time’s about right to call it a day, and that line of trees up ahead looks like there’s water of some kind.” They continued on with still no sign of Clint as they neared the line of trees. Scofield gave his horse a nudge and loped on ahead of the wagon to discover the stream. He turned the big Morgan around in a complete circle as he looked in every direction for his nephew. Then he rode back to the wagon and pulled up beside Spud again. “It’s a stream. Ain’t very deep, but it’s wide. I reckon it’ll do for the night.

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