Along the Sandbars

He heard the freight boat before he saw it. The slap-churn of flat paddles against silver water echoed up the sandstone banks. A tumbled bluff rose where the river bent out of sight and from behind the stone bluff rose pulsing chuffs of grey-white smoke. The smoke roiled into the warm morning sky, marking the slow progress of the paddle-wheeler. 

He saw the clumsy prow of the boat creep into view and then the two-storey wheelhouse. Smoke billowed from a tall stack and the whole of it looked more like a clapboard house afire than any sort of river-worthy vessel. The sternwheeler slid sideways on the steady current, appearing to edge out from behind the sandstone bluff like a reluctant actor.
The man was crouched on his haunches in the shade of a ragged stand of willow. He held a worn felt hat in both hands, rotating it like a wheel without paying it any mind. When the riverboat was full in view, he rose, clapped his hat to his head, and strode down the loose sand bank.
He was called Thomas Perry, a man of middling height though folks tended to recall him as bigger than he was. Mister Perry was whipcord strong and had the tenacity of a badger. It was good that he was strong. He and his wife, Abigail, worked a full section above the Cheyenne; had worked it alone five long years. Very soon now, that was going to change.
The freight boat drew near and Thomas waved his hat above his head. Two puffs of white steam appeared, and the sharp cries of the steam whistle came after. The boat slowed to a walking pace against the steady current of the river. A man with a dark beard appeared on the near deck. Thomas did not recognize him. The boatman raised a speaking horn as Thomas kept pace along the rough bank.

“Hallo the shore. Be you Mister Perry?”

Thomas cupped his hand to his mouth a called out to the boat. “Hallo the boat. I am Thomas Perry. Good morning to you. Meaning no offense, but where is Ferguson?”

“Ferguson took ill, sorry to say. I am Preston, Bill Preston.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance Mister Preston. The landing is just ahead. Firewood stacked there for you and we can unload my freight.”

“I hate to be the bearer of ill tidings, but more folks than old Ferguson have took sick. There is a pestilence come up from the South, come up the Missouri it did. Lots of folks in town down with it and soldiers at the Fort as well. Been some deaths and it looks to get worse.”

The news struck a cold chill through Thomas. Their nearest neighbors were the Keeters, four miles up the river, but distance was no sure proof against disease. Sickness could and had come, but he and Abigail had always been spared.

He called a question across the water.

“Is it the cholera?”

“The doctor in town don’t know what it is, nor the doc at the Fort neither. They say it is a new lung sickness, like the influenza but worse. Brings on a bad fever and a terrible cough. The town is quarantined and the Fort as well.”

“That is hard news.”

“Yessir, it is, and there’s more I’m afeared. I’ve got orders. No passengers and no contact with folks along the river. Likely this will be our last run for some time.”

Thomas Perry tried to make sense of it: Quarantine, no passengers, last run. This river is our only sure link to the outside. Four days by wagon to the town, more if it rained. Cut off from the river and Abigail fixing to birth our first child.

He pushed away the fear. The riverboat was only a stone’s throw off the bank, but he had to shout above the noise of it.

“Does that mean no passengers taken downriver to town?”

“Aye, Mister Perry, no passengers either way until this sickness passes. We will unload your goods and take the firewood, but I must ask you to stand well clear.”

“Mister Preston, how are we going to tally the goods if I cannot be on the landing?”

“We will have to go on trust, Mister Perry. I’ll measure out the firewood and make a note on your ledger. You count your goods after we leave. We will square accounts when this is all over. You have my word on it. That’s the best I can do.”

Thomas was beginning to have a strong dislike for this new man, but there was no reason for it, and it served no purpose. He shook it off and waved a hand to acknowledge the deal. He stopped walking the bank and watched the boat chuff up the river and ease into the Keeter-Perry landing.

The landing itself was no more than a half-submerged brush pile staked against the edge of a sand bar. The spring floods scoured the landing most years and then the Perrys and Keeters rebuilt it. Rosie Keeter called it God’s Work, but Thomas didn’t figure it for the labor of any gods; not the White god, nor the Sioux gods. Of course, he kept the notion to himself. Rosie Keeter could be fierce with free thought, or blasphemy as she named it.
A rough plank gangway was slung out from the deck of the riverboat and three roustabouts clambered down onto the landing. They were shirtless and shoeless, black torsos shining dark in the sun and faces made darker by the shadow of tattered straw hats.

A hawser was slung and one of the blacks looped it over a deadman on the sandbar. The pilot kept the paddles turning to match the pull of the river.
Deckhands tugged lines through block and tackle and a davit arm swung over the side. A cargo net dangled from the crane and cradled in it were sacks of dry goods, tools, ammunition, and precious books from the outside.
The roustabouts landed the cargo and stacked it on the sandbar away from the grasp of the river. They spread the empty cargo net and tossed in a full cord of firewood, arms swinging fast and smooth. The davit lifted the heavy load clear of the sand and it swayed in the air. One of the blacks slipped free the hawser and it slithered across the bar as the deckhands hauled it in.

The roustabouts scampered up the gangway and pulled it aboard. The paddleboat drifted away from the landing as smoke billowed from the stack and the paddles churned the water.

The boat chugged upstream and out of sight around the next bend. Thomas watched it disappear, and as he watched he thought of breaking this hard news to his Abigail.
* * *
The buckboard creaked and jolted over the rough path. Thomas let the mule have its head and the dusty animal plodded along at a slow walk. It was most of a day’s work to carry a load the three miles from the landing to the farm.

He and the mule made four trips up the steep bluffs to transfer the goods to the buckboard. The mule dragged the travois up the twisting trail that climbed the breaks of the Cheyenne. Thomas walked the mule up the hard climb, keeping the lead short so the animal could not balk.

The afternoon sun was slanting across the rolling hills by the time the Perry farm came into view. The working corral cast spindly shadows across the flat of the hollow. The peeled-log front of the sod house glowed against the dark turf beside and above it. Beyond the soddy he could see the timbered face of the barn where it emerged from the earth.

Abigail stood in the earthen yard; one hand raised to shade her eyes from the sun. Thomas saw her smile, wave, saw the curve of her belly heavy with their child. Five years of waiting and hoping almost come to an end. He returned her wave with a courtly sweep of his old hat, but the gesture ran false in his heart.

Thomas eased the wagon down the last sloping furlong. The mule picked up its gait at the sight of the corral, eager for the promise of rest and feed corn. Then the buckboard rolled up to the corral. He set the brake and reached for a heavy parcel bound in thick paper tied with twine. He slid to the ground and into her waiting arms.

She held him tight, her face pressed into his neck. The mule stamped a hoof and shook its harness, but they paid the animal no mind. Then Abigail pulled back, one hand resting on the shelf of her belly.

“Welcome home, Thomas. Tell me what you have in that lovely parcel.”
She made a girlish grab for the bundle just to see him dance away.

“Oh, I expect it’s just some boring old books.”

She laughed at him, then her eyes locked on his and the laugh faded on the breeze.

“What is it, Thomas? I can read more than books. Your face says that something has happened.”

“Aye, there is news from downriver and it is not good.”

“Then you’d best curry the mule and set his feed. Your supper will be on the table and then you can share your news. But first you must give me that parcel.”

Leaning to take it from him, she kissed his dusty cheek. She walked to the door of the soddy, the heavy parcel balanced against the curve of her hip, the bulge of her belly carried hidden before her. He watched her go and saw the thin, lithe girl he had married. He began to unharness the mule, scratching its ears before he slid off the crown and halter. As he worked, he imagined that nothing had changed but he knew it was not so.
* * *
Abigail sat across the trestle table from Thomas and watched him as he ate. The tang of vinegar rose from the bowl of spring greens and the corn pone was warm from the wood stove. Thomas chewed smoked ham and remembered the vicious hog the ham came from. He had not regretted slaughtering the beast.

As he ate, he spoke of the trail and the state of the river landing. He told her of birds he’d sighted, of animal sign along the trail, but nothing of the news. Abigail listened to his words, her face calm. She slid a piece of shoo-fly pie onto his empty plate.

Thomas finished his pie, catching the crumbs between the tines of his fork. Abigail cleared the small table. She returned with an earthen mug of cider, set it before him, and took her seat.

He told her the boatman’s grim news. He could see her listening to his words, as if she were plucking them from the air and examining each one of them. When he finished speaking, she reached for his hand and he took it in his own.

“Well, that is a load of news and none of it good. I am sorry to hear that Mister Ferguson has taken ill. I must have asked him a thousand questions about the workings of the boat and he never failed to tack a smile onto his answer.”

“Aye, Abbie, and I wish him a speedy recovery, but we must look to ourselves. We cannot use the river to get you to the doctor. The wagon trail is most of eighty miles and so rough it would shake you and the baby to pieces.”

Abigail squeezed his hand and smiled.  “I understand, Thomas. Even if we could fly, the town is under quarantine and they would not let us in. The doctor is a kind enough man, but he will be run off his feet caring for the townsfolk and drunk when he’s not.”

Thomas stared into his mug of cider until another squeeze of her hand brought him round.

“Stop your fretting. It serves no purpose. We have waited five years for this little miracle. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Our baby is going to be born right here on this farm, just like most babies here in the territories. Why, just look at the Sioux women. They give birth in nothing more than a hide-covered teepee.”

“Yes, but you are not a Sioux woman.”

“That is true. They are much stronger than I and I will remember them when the time comes.”

Thomas smiled and shook his head. Abbie could put the best on any bad situation, but he was a practical man.

“Abbie, you are as brave as any Sioux, but we will not do this alone if I can help it. I will ride down to the Keeter’s after tomorrow’s chores. William may know of someone willing to help.”
* * *
The sun was westering past noon and carried with it a promise of summer heat soon to come. Thomas settled his hat low on his forehead and gave the mule slack rein. The animal plodded a well-worn track through the bottomland with no need for prodding. Thomas sat loose in the saddle; a scatter-gun laid across his thighs.

He saw animal sign where the night creatures had passed over the soft earth along the creek. Fox and bobcat hunted here, and old badger as well. They were all gone to their dens and it was the birds who marked his passage. Orioles whistled from the rushes. A green heron rose from the creek on ponderous wings, squawking in protest. The mule splashed across the ford and the heron settled further up the creek to resume its silent fishing.

The mule took a long hour to walk the four miles that led to the first fields of the Keeter spread. Corn pushed knee-high out of the rough earth, green blades that glistened in the sun. Two men worked between the rows, cutting weeds with long-handled hoes. At the sight of the mule, the men stopped their work and watched his approach. They did not seem surprised.
Thomas raised a hand in greeting and the men responded in kind. He slid from the mule, looped the reins around a stunted bush, and walked to the edge of the plowed ground. The mule lowered its head to crop the rough prairie grass.

“Hello, William. Hello, Gustav.”

“Afternoon, Thomas. I’ll ask you to keep a distance, no offense meant.”

Thomas stopped where he was, a child’s stone toss away.

“You’ve heard, then.”

“I have. Word came up the trail and by the river as well. Bad news travels fast and news of disease faster.”

William Keeter was a round man, with a girth nearly half his height. A huge bristled beard covered his face and grey eyes gleamed from under the shadow of his hat.

“I see you brought your scatter-gun.”

“Yes, the Sharp-tailed grouse are out. I thought I might shoot one for Abbie’s supper.”

“Und how ist die Missus, Thomas?”

Gustav Schmidt spoke with the thick, guttural accent of his native land. He was the taller of the two men and lean by comparison. Some years before, on a trip to town, William Keeter had seen the itinerant German single-handedly loading grain sacks into a wagon. William hired the man on the spot and Gustav had been with the Keeter’s ever since.

“Abigail is well. It’s her that I come about. She’s less than a month due, as best we can figure it. Planned to take her downriver by the next boat, but this sickness has put a stop to that. Abbigail says the baby is to be born at home. We’ve got no other womenfolk and I’ve no experience with birthing babies. I come to ask for your help.”

William Keeter scratched at his beard before he replied.

“This new sickness is hard news, that is a fact. I have to think of Rosie. Losing those two boys brought her to grief. She is a strong woman, but I’ll not have her suffer again if I can help it.”

Thomas nodded his head and held his tongue. The whooping cough had carried off two of William and Rosie’s sons, hale boys who were sorely missed.

“You are a good neighbor, Thomas, and a good friend. I will spread the word as much as I am able, but I cannot promise any more than that.”
Gustav stirred beside the big man.

“Maybe I could go, do vat I can to help Missus Abbie.”

William held up a meaty paw.

“You are no doctor, Gustav, nor midwife neither.”

“No, but I chop wood, make wasser hot, do what I can do.”

“When the time comes, that may be, but better you carry word that a woman needs help with a birthing.”

“Then I go today, right now, ja?”

“I think that best, don’t you Thomas?”

Thomas smiled at this small glimmer of hope. The settlers were spread over many miles, but perhaps someone would come.

“I am much obliged to you both. It will ease Abbie’s mind.”

He blew out a breath and threw a hand towards the grazing mule.

“I’ll be getting back to Abbie now. I don’t care for leaving her alone in her condition.”

“Give her our best.”

“I will do that and give my regards to Rosie. Tell her I am sorry not to have said hello.”

Gustav raised a finger and waggled it at the sky.

“You don’t worry, Thomas. I find someone to come.”

“I thank you again, Gustav. Well, I’ll be shoving off then.”

Thomas walked to the mule and slipped its reins free. He mounted, settled the shotgun across his lap, and raised a hand in farewell. The men returned his wave as he swung the mule onto the trail and back down into the bottomland.

The mule threaded its way past cottonwood and bur oak. Afternoon shadows were long when the trees gave way to grassland hills. Thomas spotted a small flock of grouse hunting grasshoppers.

He slipped from the saddle, keeping the mule between himself and the feeding birds. They raised their heads at the click of the shotgun’s hammers but did not flush until Thomas stepped in front of the mule. Then the flock was rising, wings beating the prairie grass, and the shotgun roared. Twin clouds of blue-grey smoke billowed, and two birds fell from the sky.

Thomas thought of reloading the shotgun, dismissed the idea, then gathered in the dead grouse. It was not easy to shoot two grouse on the wing, but hunger and years of practice had been good teachers.

Repetition and failure made him good at the many tasks required to keep them alive and fed on the edge of the lonely prairie. Birthing a baby was an altogether new and monumental task. There would be no time to practice and he knew that failure could be answered with death.

He tied the grouse together with a leather thong, hung them from the saddle horn, and mounted the mule. The animal knew the way and hurried its gait, as if it could smell feed corn. Thomas was not thinking of the mule. In his mind, he was with Gustav the German, searching for someone to help his Abigail.
* * *
The last days of spring vanished into the new heat of summer. Thomas worked the crops and tended the animals. He would return to the soddy on the thinnest of excuse until Abigail was forced to chide him and send him back to his work. She had her own work to do, her belly swollen and pushing her to be ready for what was to come. The evenings were warm, and the couple sat outside the soddy to watch the day fade. Under the sunset they watched the dirt track that led to their hollow, but no rider appeared.

The afternoon sun baked Thomas’ back as he swung the splitting maul. The maul cracked a round of wood and the sharp sound echoed off the earth banks. They did not need more firewood, but now he worked close to the soddy so he could hear Abigail’s call. The time for waiting was over and they were alone. He balanced a half-round of bur oak on the block and swung again. Another crack rang in the hot, still air. The echo was answered by the far-off snort of a mule and Thomas looked to the sound.
Slanting sunlight illuminated a very small rider perched atop a very tall mule. Thomas mopped his face with a bandana and watched as mule and rider dropped into the hollow. A plume of smoke wreathed the rider’s head, then drifted away. The rider raised a battered hat in salute and Thomas saw the lined face of an old woman. He pushed back his surprise and raised a hand in response.

The mule plodded to the corral and stopped as if commanded, yet the reins were slack in the old woman’s hand. She spoke with a strong voice that belied the age etched into her face.

“Be you Mister Thomas Perry?”

“I am. I do not believe we have met before.”

“We have not, Mister Perry. I am Mattie Jenkins. Live over on Foster Creek. That crazy German of Keeter’s come tearing up to my place, yammering that infernal gibberish of his. When I’d finally parsed out what the lout was trying to say, I set out straight away.”

“Foster Creek, you say? Why, Missus Jenkins, that’s ten miles and the far side of the river. A fearsome journey for one alone.”

“It’s Miss Jenkins, Mister Perry, only you can leave off with the Miss and the Jenkins. Everyone calls me Mattie. It weren’t fearsome at all and I weren’t alone, mores the pity. You may not know me, but that William Keeter does. Old Keeter knows most everyone hereabouts, even if he don’t let on.

“Gustav went upriver to the Everett Ferry. The Everett boys carried him across on that contraption of theirs. We come back the same way. Crazy German wanted to ride all the way here, but I finally got shed of him at Keeter’s place. Twenty miles and him jabbering every step of it.”

“I’m very grateful to you for coming all that way.”

“Plenty of time yet to see if there’s anything to be grateful for.”
Mattie swung a leg over the hornless saddle and dropped like a cat to the ground.

“I see Missus Perry there in the doorway and I believe we should get acquainted. Could you loose my mule in your corral?”

“She prefers Abbie, and please call me Thomas. Anything I need to know about your mule? Does he bite or kick?”

“No, I cured him of his orneriness years ago. You give him a nosebag of corn and he will love you forever.”

Without another word, the old woman turned away and marched across the packed earth to where Abbie stood in the door of the soddy. The two women disappeared inside, and Thomas turned to the mule. The animal had not moved a step. He looped his hand through the slack rein and led the animal into the corral.

By the time Thomas entered the soddy, the two women were at the small table chatting like old friends. A kettle was set to boil on the wood stove and the room was warm. He hung his hat on a peg and slipped his thumb under a pair of saddlebags that were slung over his shoulder.

“Ladies. I brought in your kit, Miz Mattie.”

“I’m obliged, Thomas.”

“Thomas, Mattie has been telling me of her ride over. Ten miles up the river to those horrible Everett brothers, then across the river on that rickety barge of theirs, then ten miles back down. Can you imagine?”

The old woman patted Abbie’s hand.

“Those boys know me. They weren’t no trouble. I reckon they are more afeared of me than of any sickness. Besides, I’ve seen to a few of their womenfolk, so they didn’t charge me for the crossing, nor Gustav neither.”

The kettle hissed, and Abigail started to rise, but Mattie put a hand to her shoulder.

“You let me see to the tea, my girl. We will have a nice cup and then I’ll be having a look at this baby of yours. Thomas can go tend to his work, so we have us a bit of privacy.”

The old woman gave Thomas a look. He nodded and lifted his hat from the peg.
* * *
The evening insects were in full throat when Mattie Jenkins led Thomas away from the sod house.

“I need to chat with old Moses and have a pipe.”

“Maybe I should leave you to it. I am not much of a praying man.”

Mattie chuckled as they walked down the bank to the barn.  “Moses is my mule. He ain’t much on prayer neither, but he sulks if I ignore him.”

The old woman saw to the mule, feeding him a bit of leftover corn pone and reaching high to scratch his ears. Leaving the low sod barn, she seated herself on an old crate. Thomas hunkered down on his heels, his back against the sun-warmed logs. He watched Mattie fill her pipe and wave a lucifer over it. Smoke curled from under the wide brim of her hat and hung above her head in the still air.

“Thomas, the baby is breached. I will try to turn it, but it may be too late. I haven’t told Abbie yet.”

“Then we had best tell her. Abbie don’t scare too easily.”

“And how about you, Thomas?”

“I have fears like any man. I fear hurting myself in the hills, or taking up lame, or getting thrown from a spooked mule. But Abbie now, that’s different. I do love her so, pardon me for being so personal.”

“Nothing to pardon in a man loving his wife.”

The midwife smoked her pipe. Smoke coiled from the bowl, then billowed as she puffed. Through the blue-white cloud, Thomas saw Mattie nodding her head, her eyes on the gloaming. When she spoke again, her voice seemed harder.

“I was in Saint Louis when the cholera come up the river, back in forty-nine. It lasted into the next year. Killed thousands of folks. A terrible thing, but mostly I remember the fear. Fear made some folks crazy. Not all of them, mind you, but enough. There were times when the Sheriff had to enforce the quarantine with a drawn revolver.”

Another cloud of smoke curled from under Mattie’s hat. She reached out a gnarled hand and slapped Thomas on the knee.

“Fear won’t do us no good, Thomas, and it won’t help Abbie none. This is not my first breach birth. We can’t figure on any other help, so I need to ask you something and I mean no offense by it.”

She paused, but Thomas made no reply.

“At a birthing, there’s generally two ways of dealing with the husband. I either send him off on a fool’s errand or I put him to work.”

Thomas had no qualms about accepting the old woman’s bossing.

“You tell me what to do, Miz Mattie, and I’ll move heaven and hell doing it.”

“That is what I expected to hear.”

She tapped her pipe against the wooden crate and ground out the embers with her boot heel.

“We best get back to Abigail. Wouldn’t want her to think we got taken by spooks.”
* * *
Abigail’s labor came with the next sunrise, as if induced by the breaking day. There was no time for talk, only for work. Thomas stoked a fire in the stone hearth outside the soddy. He filled an iron cauldron with well water and set it above the flames. While the water heated, he tended to the animals.

Mattie would emerge from the soddy and call out a need. Thomas brewed tea from a bundle of strange herbs, made compresses soaked in cool water drawn fresh from the well. He came and went as needed, all the while holding his dark thoughts at bay.

Thomas could not say whether time moved very quickly or not at all. It was midday when Mattie summoned him inside to help, but whether the same day or the next, he could never later recall.

Following Mattie’s direction, Thomas helped Abigail into a squat at the edge of their bed. He held her from behind and she sagged into him, her sweat drenched head against his chest. Abigail’s distended belly heaved and beneath it he could see the top of Mattie’s grey head. Abigail’s cries reverberated through his own body, drowning out Mattie’s cooed encouragements.

What followed fell into a blurred and accelerating rhythm of cries, contractions, and sweat. Thomas whispered all of his strength into Abigail’s ear. Three human bodies were linked in that small room, he to Abigail’s heaving body, and her to Mattie’s waiting hands. Then they were joined by a fourth, tiny and squalling at the new world.
* * *
Thomas sagged in a cane chair outside the door of the soddy. He was felt done through, worn harder than he could ever remember. The glow of the setting sun washed over him and he felt the heat bake into his bones. He heard the creak of the door and turned to see Mattie slide out of the soddy. He started up, but a smile creased her face and she waved him down. The old woman squatted on a low stool, kicked her legs out onto the packed earth, and fished her corncob pipe from an apron pocket.

“Rest yourself, Thomas. New mother and baby are fine, sleeping like the angels. Lands, that was a long day.”

Her gnarled fingers teased some tobacco from a leather pouch and into the bowl of her corncob. She touched off a lucifer and puffed at the pipe. She leaned back against the wall of the soddy and watched a cloud of smoke drift toward the coral.

Thomas raised a tired hand, pointing to a bur oak on the far edge of the hollow.

“I buried the afterbirth beneath that oak, just as you said.”

The old midwife nodded her head.

“That will bring your son luck, Thomas, and the wee child is already lucky.”

“I can never thank you enough, Miz Mattie, not if I live a hundred years.”

She raised her pipe to wave the thought away.

“No need, Thomas. Nothing could bring me greater happiness than to help bring new life into this old world.”

“Is that what you were doing in Saint Louis?”

“Aye, that I was. Babies need birthing even when death is walking the streets. They were fearful times, that’s certain. I watched it while I was tending to the new mothers and tending to the dying as well. Fear can bring out the worst in people, but it can also bring out the best. It did not stop those babies being born and it did not keep the cholera from taking my husband.”

“I am sorry, Miz Mattie. That is hard.”

She smoked in silence, then pointed the stem of her pipe at the setting sun.

“Folks talk about life being like a river, and I believe that to be true. We are all of us floating on that river, swept along on the current of it. Sometimes we snag up on a sandbar and think that it is the most important event of our lives, but it don’t matter to the river. That old river just does not care. Eventually, the water will wash us off the sandbar and back into the stream. We worry about the next snag coming up. Meanwhile, we’ve clean forgotten about whatever great event we left behind. So, I ask you, what is the point in being afraid?”

The question required no answer, just as the sun needed no answer to fall beneath the rim of the hollow. The old woman and the young man watched the sunset and spoke no words.
* * *
Two more days passed before Mattie took her leave, perched high on the mule before the new parents. Abigail held baby Franklin and Thomas held Abigail. Abbie could not hold back the tears that ran down her cheeks.

“Thank you, Mattie, thank you ever so much.”

“You are welcome, my girl. You take care of little Franklin. My Frank would be pleased to know his name got carried on.”

“Must you go alone? Thomas could ride with you.”

The old woman laughed and shook her head.

“Old Moses here knows the way. The only danger is that German talking my ears off when I reach Keeter’s place.”

Thomas raised a hand.

“Give our thanks to the Keeter’s and to Gustav as well. I will be along in the fall, Mattie with whatever I can bring.”

“You’ll be welcome, Thomas. Hie now, Moses.”

The mule turned and walked out of the hollow at a stately pace. Thomas and Abigail watched until the top of Mattie’s hat disappeared over the rim. Abigail turned to Thomas and held little Franklin up to him.

“Our world is bigger now, My Love.”

Thomas looking into that tiny face. He saw the river and felt himself carried on the flow of it, he and his wife and his child. Along the banks of the river, sandbars and the snags reached their fingers into the current. He smiled and nodded his head.

“Yes, it is, Abbie. Yes, it is.”