CHAPTER XXII
MANDY McGOVERN ON MARRIAGE
Our slow travel finally brought us near to the historic forks of thePlatte where that shallow stream stretches out two arms, one running tothe mountains far to the south, the other still reaching westward for atime. Between these two ran the Oregon Trail, pointing the way to thePacific, and on this trail, somewhere to the west, lay Laramie. Beforeus now lay two alternatives. We could go up the beaten road to Laramie,or we could cross here and take an old trail on the north side of theriver for a time. Auberry thought this latter would give better feed andwater, and perhaps be safer as to Indians, so we held a little councilover it.
The Platte even here was a wide, treacherous stream, its sandy bottomcontinuously shifting. At night the melted floods from the mountainscame down and rendered it deeper than during the day, when for the mostpart it was scarcely more than knee deep. Yet here and there at anytime, undiscoverable to the eye, were watery pitfalls where the sand waswashed out, and in places there was shifting quicksand, dangerous forman or animal.
"We'll have to boat across," said Auberry finally. "We couldn't get thewagons over loaded." Wherefore we presently resorted to the old Plainsmakeshift of calking the wagon bodies and turning them into boats, itbeing thought probable that two or three days would be required to makethe crossing in this way. By noon of the following day our rude boatswere ready and our work began.
I was not yet strong enough to be of much assistance, so I sat on thebank watching the busy scene. Our men were stripped to the skin, some ofthe mountaineers brown almost as Indians, for even in those days whitehunters often rode with no covering but the blanket, and not that whenthe sun was warm. They were now in, now out of the water, straining atthe lines which steadied the rude boxes that bore our goods, pulling atthe heads of the horses and mules, shouting, steadying, encouraging,always getting forward. It took them nearly an hour to make the firstcrossing, and presently we could see the fire of their farther camp, nowoccupied by some of those not engaged in the work.
As I sat thus I was joined by Mandy McGovern, who pulled out hercontemplative pipe. "Did you see my boy, Andy Jackson?" she asked. "Hewent acrost with the first bunch--nary stitch of clothes on to him. Heain't much thicker'n a straw, but say--he was a-rastlin' them mules anda-swearin' like a full-growed man! I certainly have got hopes that boy'sgoin' to come out all right. Say, I heerd him tell the cook this mornin'he wasn't goin' to take no more sass off n him. I has hopes--I certainlyhas hopes, that Andrew Jackson '11 kill a man some time yit; and likeenough it'll be right soon."
I gave my assent to this amiable hope, and presently Mandy went on.
"But say, man, you and me has got to get that girl acrost somehow,between us. You know her and me--and sometimes that Englishman--travelsalong in the amberlanch. She's allowed to me quiet that when the timecome for her to go acrost, she'd ruther you and me went along. She's allready now, if you air."
"Very good," said I, "we'll go now--they've got a fire there, and arecooking, I suppose."
Mandy left me, and I went for my own horse. Presently we three, allmounted, met at the bank. Taking the girl between us, Mandy and Istarted, and the three horses plunged down the bank. As it chanced, westruck a deep channel at the send-off, and the horses were at onceseparated. The girl was swept out of her saddle, but before I couldrender any assistance she called out not to be alarmed. I saw that shewas swimming, down stream from the horse, with one hand on the pommel.Without much concern, she reached footing on the bar at which the horsescrambled up.
"Now I'm good and wet," laughed she. "It won't make any difference afterthis. I see now how the squaws do."
We plunged on across the stream, keeping our saddles for most of theway, sometimes in shallow water, sometimes on dry, sandy bars, and nowand again in swift, swirling channels; but at last we got over and fellupon the steaks of buffalo and the hot coffee which we found at thefire. The girl presently left us to make such changes in her apparel asshe might. Mandy and I were left alone once more.
"It seems to me like it certainly is too bad," said she bitterly, overher pipe stem, "that there don't seem to be no real man around nowherefittin' to marry a real woman. That gal's good enough for a real man,like my first husband was."
"What could he do?" I asked her, smiling.
"Snuff a candle at fifty yards, or drive a nail at forty. He nach'ellyscorned to bring home a squirrel shot back of the ears. He killed fourmen in fair knife fightin', an' each time come free in co'te. He was sixfoot in the clean, could hug like a bar, and he wa'n't skeered ofanything that drawed the breath of life."
"Tell me, Aunt Mandy," I said, "tell me how he came courting you,anyway."
"He never did no great at co'tin'," said she, grinning. "He just comealong, an' he sot eyes on me. Then he sot eyes on me again. I sot eyeson him, too."
"Yes?"
"One evenin', says he, 'Mandy, gal, I'm goin' to marry you all rightsoon.'
"Says I, '_No_, you ain't!'
"Says he, '_Yes_, I air!' I jest laughed at him then and started to runaway, but he jumped and ketched me--I told you he could hug like a bar.Mebbe I wasn't hard to ketch. Then he holds me right tight, an' sayshe,' Gal, quit this here foolin'. I'm goin' to marry you, youhear!--then maybe he kisses me--law! I dunno! Whut business is it o'yourn, anyhow? That's about all there was to it. I didn't seem to keer.But that," she concluded, "was a real _man_. He shore had my other twomen plumb faded."
"What became of your last husband, Mandy?" I asked, willing to be amusedfor a time. "Did he die?"
"Nope, didn't die."
"Divorced, eh?"
"Deevorced, hell! No, I tole you, I up an' left him."
"Didn't God join you in holy wedlock, Mandy?"
"No, it was the Jestice of the Peace."
"Ah?"
"Yep. And them ain't holy none--leastways in Missouri. But say, man,look yere, it ain't God that marries folks, and it ain't Jestices of thePeace--it's _theirselves_."
I pondered for a moment. "But your vow--your promise?"
"My promise? Whut's the word of a woman to a man? Whut's the word of aman to a woman? It ain't words, man, it's _feelin's_."
"In sickness or in health?" I quoted.
"That's all right, if your _feelin's_ is all right. The Church is allright, too. I ain't got no kick. All I'm sayin' to you is, folks marries_theirselves_."
I pondered yet further. "Mandy," said I, "suppose you were a man, andyour word was given to a girl, and you met another girl and couldn't gether out of your head, or out of your heart--you loved the new one mostand knew you always would--what would you do?"
But the Sphinx of womanhood may lie under linsey-woolsey as well assilk. "Man," said she, rising and knocking her pipe against her bonyknee, "you talk like a fool. If my first husband was alive, he mightmaybe answer that for you."