Page 54 of My Darling Clementine

The Studebaker stood behind the stables with everything bought or ordered piled haphazardly inside. Clem produced a piece of paper and pencil, and as she separated their supplies into piles for packing, Kizzy took inventory. Mid-morning, they sat down to see what else they needed and could still fit into the small space.

“What about cooking? I’ll need pots, pans, and utensils.”

“Right, and I already have them; a cauldron, ladle, coffee pot, skillet, carving knife, one pot, three mixing bowls, and two sets of tin cups, plates, spoons, and forks.”

“That’s it?”

“We’re taking only what we need to get ourselves and our livestock to California,” Clem explained. “Remember, the mules have as far to walk as we do. Weigh everything in your mind, and imagine your shoulders carrying it. Once we get to California, there are stores that stock everything miners need.”

Kizzy nodded, looking over their inventory. “Okay, we’ve got a big sack of coffee beans, and five barrels full of root vegetables, dry beans, flour, cornmeal, and dried meat, enough for at least a month or more if we need to stretch until reaching an outpost where we can restock.” She shook her head. “We still need salt, sugar, molasses, dried fruit, pickles, spices, pork belly, and lard. They won’t take much room, I promise. I’ll ask Mrs. Bates where she buys those things.”

Clem gulped, her stomach rumbled. “You can cook?”

“You can’t?” A head tilt and amused eyes speared her. “What kind of finishing school did you go to?”

“The kind that got tired of trying to make me into a lady. I offered them a literary genius instead, and explained I needed class time to compose epic poetry.”

Kizzy laughed. “And that worked?”

Clem shrugged. “I always resented things like cooking, sewing, embroidery, the ‘woman’s skills’ as Mrs. Phelps called them. She gave me a lot of time to write, and being sports minded I enjoyed the outdoors, so I volunteered to help Joe, the groundskeeper, in the garden. He was a nice older fellow whose eyes were starting to fail; he taught me to hunt, and shoot at poachers.” She laughed at the horror that crossed Kizzy’s face. “I’ve shot rabbits, pheasants, and a fox or two for the fur, but never a person.” She shrugged. “Yet.”

“Wounds!”

“Excuse me?”

“I just realized we need medicines and tonics in case either of us gets sick, and bandages for wounds, too. You need those things right then, not three days later at the next outpost. I’ll have to make a list, and I’m sure to forget something,” she fretted, shaking her head.

“Then it’s a good thing I bought a copy of Dr. Gunn’s A Poor Man's Friend, In The Hours Of Affliction, Pain And Sickness in Boston.” Clem nodded. “It’s in my bag at the hotel. I figured I could read it if I got bored, or look something up if I need to.”

Over the next few hours, Kizzy’s artistic eye and use of negative space helped Clem organize the packing. They had to keep two things in mind: first, items weighing the most had to be on the bottom so the wagon wouldn’t be top heavy and tip over; and second, some things had to be close at hand, including tools for emergencies and medicines for illness. They packed what they already had, then went to eat lunch at the hotel and make plans for the afternoon.

Taking only necessities for the crossing saved them room and weight compared to homesteaders bringing furniture, seed, and farm equipment, or inexperienced prospectors carrying rockers and heavy sluice boxes. They decided to buy two sturdy wooden chairs, a half-dozen candle shade lamps with fifty candles for each, enough sturdy canvas for three tents, plenty of rope, a tin pail that fit in a wooden bucket, and at Clem’s insistence, a large tin basin big enough for two to bathe at once.

“Why?” Kizzy shook her head. “Do we need something that large and bulky?”

“We might,” she answered, “and soap, plenty of soap. Better prepared and not need it, than otherwise.”

After lunch, they went separate ways, agreeing to meet back at the wagon to complete the packing. Kizzy headed for the kitchen to enlist Mrs. Bates as a shopping advisor and companion, and after a brief consultation with Mr. Bates, Clem set off toward the hardware and dry goods store.

By three in the afternoon, she’d purchased everything on her list and began packing it away in the wagon. The two women arrived with arms full of packages, and Clem walked Mrs. Bates back to the hotel. There she picked up a small wooden cask of whiskey, and another of rum, and carried them down the street with one perched on each shoulder. She grinned at Kizzy’s raised eyebrow when she attached them with secure rope at the back of the wagon, behind the chuck box.

“How much do you drink?” Kizzy glanced at Clem, a look of worry in her eye.

“Just enough to enjoy myself once in a while, woman,” she said as the wagon train master stopped by, leaning over the side. “And extra to share, if I choose,” she teased, and nodded. “Hey, Mr. Cushing, we’re almost done packing.”

“So, I see,” he said with an approving nod. “You learned a lot during our first crossing, Dennison. I don’t see a lot of extras, but plenty of precautions.” He smiled at Kizzy. “Alcohol can be handy for many things on the trail, ma’am, from doctoring to softening leather. I hear it even secured safe passage through dangerous territory once.”

“I’m sure Clem knows better than I, sir,” she agreed with a demure smile in return. “I’m lucky to have such an experienced husband.” Her bright eyes twinkled at the wagon master.

Clem grinned at her, then winked at the trail boss. “Kizzy’s smarter than she lets on. She can handle a team,” she gestured to the interior of the wagon, “and organized all this. We’re only taking what we need to cross, and she’s arranged it so everything’s handy, the weight is well distributed, and the wagon’s balanced.” She put her arm around Kizzy’s waist. “I’m the lucky one.”

“A matched pair, it seems.” The large bull-shaped man with the fearsome black mustache tipped his hat to Kizzy, and nodded at Clem. “We leave from the west side of the railroad station at dawn. Dennison, with your experience I’m starting you at wagon one while I get the tenderfoots off right. Don’t be late, you know I don’t wait.” He smiled at Kizzy, then winked at Clem. “Well, maybe a half-hour for newlyweds, but don’t push it.”

“We won’t be late, Mr. Cushing,” assured Kizzy. “We’re as eager to get started as you are.”

He chuckled and raised his hand in acknowledgment as he walked away.

“Is that good, being wagon one?”