westward journey P. A. BALLINGER Westward the sun westward the thin line of white-covered wagons white when the journey began in Kansas City, but now a dirty grey. The wagon train had been forging its way over unmarked prairie and through mountain passes for some three months months marked by delays, detours, accidents, and a general lack of discipline among the motley group seeking the treasures of California free gold, free land, free animal furs, freedom from work, from cares and from authority. To all of their worldly possessions packed within the confines of a wagon box, they were adding their dreams, their ambitions, and their incapabilities. The stout hearts and disciplined souls had survived. Mounds of prairie soil covered the bodies of the weak and inadequate in whom the will to live and to fight had not been equal to the task of survival. Although the Sierra Nevada mountains loomed on the horizon, there were many miles of trackless prairie yet to be traveled. The sun bore down with merciless intensity; its searing blast typifying hell's fire to the more imaginative of the immigrants. This land of loose sand, sagebrush, alkali and nonsensical mirages conspired to thwart the efforts of both man and beast. The blowing sand sifted into every opening of the loose canvas. Sand permeated their clothing and their food. The fat "sow belly," hominy grits, even the boiled beans sucked sand from the unwashed cooking utensils. Water was for drinking only, and the casks lashed to the rear of each wagon were not to be broached for dishwashing or bathing. Dishes were cleaned by rubbing them with sand and very often a residue was left in the tin plates and frying pans, mixing with the food and producing a very annoying grinding noise when the food was chewed. No one bathed. Each person developed a characteristic effluvium which, combined with the odor of wood smoke, cooking food, sweating horses, and the excrement of both man and beast, produced the aroma that hung over the wagon train bedding down for the night. At intervals prayer meetings, psalm singing, religious sermons were held by Brother Christian, self-ordained spiritual leader of the train. Very little spirituality existed, however it was not a religious trek. Greed, not God, had motivated the seemingly endless journey through mountains, across rivers, and over lonely sandy prairies. Christian had a small flock, mostly women, mostly frightened women women who must draw strength from their God to guide them to the promised land. Brother Christian's nightly congregation dwindled as the goal that lay only across the Sierra Nevada mountains was approached. Christian was a nondescript type. His bearded, tranquil face peered from beneath a thatch of blond, bleached hair. His eyes looked through and beyond, never at an object. Days, weeks, months under a broiling sun had bronzed the back of a thin scrawny neck. Above his sun-faded shirt his Adam's apple bobbled in a fascinating cadence each time he swallowed air, food, or water. His angular frame devoid of excess fat was bound together by a network of hard, stringy muscles. One suspender cross-wise across his chest served as the only support for his pair of much-patched Levi pants. Some of the patches had, no doubt, been part of the petticoat of his departed wife. On Sundays he donned a pair of Levi's entirely devoid of patches handsome in their simplicity. Christian's wife had died suddenly. One morning she failed to awaken. By noon she was buried under the hated sand. Christian conducted the service at the grave and moved on to join the departed wagon train. His wife's death left Christian with mixed emotions grief, a sense of loss, and the inevitable feeling of guilt. 8 He blamed himself for bringing her on such an arduous journey. She was satisfied at home. Never a robust woman, she lacked strength and stamina. Less than a month's journey had left her depressed, discouraged, and ill. They had thought that perhaps the dry desert air would help her chronic lung condition. However, the climate could not compensate for the difficulties of the trip. She missed the beloved mountains of her homeland; the vast expanse of sand and sagebrush depressed her spirits. Death was not unwelcome. Christian withdrew into himself. Serious, sensitive, and fastidious, he could not endure the profanity, the noise and the nauseating odors of the evening camp. His wagon was always stopped to the lee of the main body. He had ever enjoyed solitude. His isolation gave him unlimited opportunity for prayer and communion with his God. Often on dark, moonless nights he liked to repeat over and over the Twenty-Third Psalm, probably because of the great contrast between its green pastures and cool waters and the hot, dry, sand-swept prairie. On "meeting" nights he exhorted his followers with great vigor, more sincere conviction. Oftentimes he confessed his own weaknesses and invited his congregation to do likewise. He prayed long and loud, his voice rising above the commotion of the camp and rolling over the silent prairie. As his speech reached its climax, his Adam's apple performed fantastic gyrations. His tired followers, seated on the hard prairie ground, were often lulled into deep slumber. They would need their rest on the morrow when the wagon train moved again, ever towards the west, towards the fabled territory of California. Christian now was really alone. Early in August he had been forced to leave the wagon train. An open gopher hole, a sudden squeal of dismay, a broken leg, a mercifully-placed bullet and Christian was left with only one horse. The snows of the coming winter were greatly feared. Snow fell early on the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. No time now for further delays, for individual considerations. The survival of the majority was of paramount concern. Homesteads must be obtained, crops planted that could be harvested before their meager stores of provisions were exhausted. Otherwise, the members of the train faced starvation. Christian, his horse, and the sick man lying in his wagon bed were alone, facing the expanse of sand and sagebrush. The wagon master had asked Christian to give the sick man a bed in his wagon. Known only as "Old Bob" to the immigrants, the sick man had been guide, confidant, and counsellor to the wagon master. He was greatly missed. Bob had spent his life roaming the country from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, trapping, mining, and guiding immigrants. Christian sometimes attempted a conversation with the sick man. He got no response and concluded that the man was sleeping. He slowly formulated in his mind a prayer in behalf of his companion. "Oh, Lord, if it be Thy will, look down on my friend, Bob. He is ailin', Lord, and needs to partake of your strength. Bob knows the way to the Promised Land, and I need help. My horse is sore put to continue his heavy task. If an animal is worthy of Thy notice, Lord, lend him of Thy strength that he may bear his burden." He continued praying almost in a whisper asking forgiveness for himself for allowing his wife to die. Unrelenting guilt still hung heavily in his mind. Most of his prayers were said to allay his anxieties. Alone in a strange and savage land, he had to commune with his God in order to maintain his sanity. The unceasing wind had obliviated the wagon tracks of the main body. He had to depend upon inspiration 9