Chapter 10 ~ Page 131
About noon, after climbing a steep ridge, we had to make a decision on which way to turn. As usual, I sent out my scouts. Bernadette returned saying she had found a good trail. We waited for Colette. Then called. And, finally followed her hoofprints.
We found her in an abandoned graveyard, down on her knees reading the inscription on a particularly ornate tombstone. I tied my horse on another monument that read 1872, and walked past others with dates of 1861, and 1859. As this spot was completely hidden by a thick grove of trees, and the ground covered by a bed of moss, I had to shake off that feeling of complete silence again.
"Bernadette, what have you found?" I shouted in an extra jolly voice.
And my daughter turned with a finger to her lips for quiet, so I could read:
Jennie Jack
Native of Glosgow, Scotland
Died at Age 22, 1853
After a few more days of generally heading north, I had to start worrying on how we were going to cross the Middle Fork of the Feather River. The topographic showed a deep canyon, so every now and then I would hang up my reins on the saddle and study the map for a possible route. It was easy to leave the driving to Charlie. We were so accustomed to making miles that the horses would plod onward by themselves, puzzled only at which direction to take when coming upon a junction in the trail.
I looked about to make a check on how the packs were riding. Bernice was ahead busily chatting over her shoulder to the girls.
BJ was behind, deep in thought over one of the million or so subjects that crossed his mind daily. All was serene, except, somehow—something was missing. I counted the horses, and came up short, "Seven, eight, nine. Hey, where is the other pack string?"
"You have it."
"Not The Colonel. Where is Daisy, Pokey, and No-Name?"
"Doesn't Mom have them," asked BJ?
Bernice said, "No James did."
"Me, no."
We found her in an abandoned graveyard, down on her knees reading the inscription on a particularly ornate tombstone. I tied my horse on another monument that read 1872, and walked past others with dates of 1861, and 1859. As this spot was completely hidden by a thick grove of trees, and the ground covered by a bed of moss, I had to shake off that feeling of complete silence again.
"Bernadette, what have you found?" I shouted in an extra jolly voice.
And my daughter turned with a finger to her lips for quiet, so I could read:
Jennie Jack
Native of Glosgow, Scotland
Died at Age 22, 1853
After a few more days of generally heading north, I had to start worrying on how we were going to cross the Middle Fork of the Feather River. The topographic showed a deep canyon, so every now and then I would hang up my reins on the saddle and study the map for a possible route. It was easy to leave the driving to Charlie. We were so accustomed to making miles that the horses would plod onward by themselves, puzzled only at which direction to take when coming upon a junction in the trail.
I looked about to make a check on how the packs were riding. Bernice was ahead busily chatting over her shoulder to the girls.
BJ was behind, deep in thought over one of the million or so subjects that crossed his mind daily. All was serene, except, somehow—something was missing. I counted the horses, and came up short, "Seven, eight, nine. Hey, where is the other pack string?"
"You have it."
"Not The Colonel. Where is Daisy, Pokey, and No-Name?"
"Doesn't Mom have them," asked BJ?
Bernice said, "No James did."
"Me, no."
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia