Page 56 of My Darling Clementine

“We’re going to California!” Naked, jumping up and down in her eagerness, she made a delightful sight.

“Keep that up,” said Clem as she watched, “and Mr. Cushing will take off without us!”

“I don’t want that,” Kizzy said, spinning to find her clothes. “Hey, where’s my dress?”

“I washed it in our bath water, along with our small clothes,” Clem said with a smug grin. “They’re drying in the back of the wagon, draped over the chuck box.” She put her hands on her hips, waiting.

“Um, then…” Kizzy looked around the room. “What am I wearing?”

“A tempting smile, from where I’m looking,” joked Clem, before pointing to a stack of denim and a pair of new leather boots on the bedside table. “Debbie and Lucille Blair brought them over yesterday while we were packing, and gave them to Mrs. Bates, who handed them to me as I was settling the bill.”

Kizzy held up three pieces: a wide-legged split skirt ending above the ankle, a pullover shirt of light blue, and a long-waisted denim vest. “Very practical, I must say.” She nodded in approval. “I saw a drawing in a newspaper of a woman cowboy wearing something like this. Worthy clothes for a working woman.”

“You could write newspaper ads,” Clem laughed as she headed downstairs. “Get dressed, my beautiful, working, wedded wife.”

A few minutes later, Kizzy walked into the dining room wearing the denim outfit. It looked plain, sturdy, and sensible when she held it up, but it fit her delicious curves so well Clem couldn’t help but stare. Wearing her hair in a thick braid down her back, with a bright smile on her face and a teasing light in her eyes, Kizzy sauntered over in her new boots.

Clem’s mouth went dry as she held her chair. “You look…” she couldn’t find words to finish her thought.

The cook bustled out from the kitchen, put two plates of fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs on the table, along with a small picnic basket heaped high and covered with a cloth. “Wedding gift from the hotel,” she said with a curt nod before heading back to her kitchen. “Nice duds,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing to continue preparing breakfast.

“They are nice duds,” agreed Kizzy, fingering the fine cotton of her voluminous sleeve. “Did you do this?”

Clem shook her head. “No, the talented Blair sisters did. You couldn’t have prepared for this, so I asked them to create a simple, sensible, sturdy set of clothes to help you cross the prairie during the autumn and early winter. Mrs. Blair traced your shoes and had the boots made. Her girls already had your measurements and designed the outfit.” She blinked. “You look wonderful. How does it feel?”

“It’s a perfect way to start my new journey, with a new husband, in a new wagon, and wearing a new outfit.” Kizzy reached across the table and patted Clem’s hand. “You are spoiling me.” She ate the last fried potato and licked her lips with a thoughtful smile. “I’ll have to think of a creative way to thank you.”

And judging from last night, Kizzy could be very creative. “I look forward to that, Mrs. Dennison, as well as spoiling you even more.” What a lucky woman she was.

“What a lucky woman I am,” Kizzy said at the same moment, her bright smile charming.

They drove to the head of the line of waiting wagons behind the railroad station and pulled out, heading west at dawn on Friday, August 18th, 1848.

As the familiar noise of squeaking wagons, rattling chains, braying donkeys, stomping horses, snorting oxen, and the clanking and clanging of loose items rose behind her, Clem kept her hand on the lead mule’s harness, leading it with a calm, steady step along the well-established trail. Just after noon, Mr. Cushing rode up on his horse, dismounted, and walked beside Clem.

“There’s a handful of wagons that need to unpack and reload tonight, so we’ll camp early. To make up time, and to get my point across with one bastard who thinks he knows better, I’m asking you to pick up the pace. You think your missus can handle the wagon if you ride a mule? I want to make the next ridge over by early afternoon, which means a trot at least.” He looked at Clem. “Can you do it?” He looked over his shoulder at Kizzy, holding the reins in loose hands as Clem led the team. “Can she?”

“We will do our best.”

“Can’t ask more than that.” Mr. Cushing shook Clem’s hand, then swung back up into his saddle. “Have a word with your wife, mount up, and I’ll give the order.” He rode off.

Clem let the lead mule go and waited for the wagon to catch up. She walked beside it. “What do you think, Kizzy? Feel confident you can drive the team, say, twice as fast as they’re going now?”

“Sure, but…”

“But, what?”

“I don’t like the idea of you riding one of the lead mules, at least not yet. They don’t know you, or me at the reins, and they’re big if you haven’t noticed. Twice as big as you. If they get spooked, if the wagon tips, if…well…” She frowned. “I just don’t like it, is all.”

Clem looked up at her in the wagon seat, considering. “I’ll ride the little molly; she’s broke to the saddle. I’ll ride her beside the lead pair and set the pace. They won’t let her get ahead; if you keep a firm hand they’ll trot to keep up.”

Kizzy beamed with approval, grinned, and flexed her arms. “I’ll keep the team reined in, you keep them motivated, and we’ll be two ridges over within a few hours.”

Clem dropped back to unhitch the smallest mule, threw a blanket and saddle on her, and cinched it tight, then rode back up to Kizzy. “Once I get up in front, Mr. Cushing will shout, and I’ll get this one to double the speed. Stay calm, hold firm, and I’ll see you at camp.” She waved and moved into place. When the call sounded, she dug in her heels.

The smart, agile molly soon outpaced the plodding mule team, all muscular johnnies, receiving sidelong glances and nostril flares. Kizzy must have tightened her grip on the reins, they fell into step and began pulling together to keep pace. The rattling of the wagon wheels increased with speed, as did the startled bleats from the surprised mules tethered behind, forced into a trot to keep from being dragged.

After two months of soft living in Boston, Clem’s butt was jelly by the time they made it over the first ridge, but she grit her teeth and rose in the saddle, the tension now in her thighs. The mule, bless her heart, sensed a change in her rider, and settled into a cantering rhythm that helped ease the strain. Clem found her seat again and urged muscle memory back to work.