Page 70 of My Darling Clementine

“Father did his best, I guess.” Clem stoked the fire, adding a few small pieces. “He was a busy man, starting a newspaper, building the business, chasing down stories…” She sighed. “He wasn’t equipped to raise a child, especially,” she looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then mouthed the words, “a girl like me.”

She shrugged. “I must have been a handful, always wanting to go out and play with the boys, which at the time he encouraged to give him more time for work. But it backfired on him because when the other girls started looking at boys as potential husbands, they were already my friends and treated me like any other fellow. That’s who I copied when I first tried passing.” She laughed. “My first role models were teenage boys, so that worked out about as expected.”

She walked over and watched Kizzy mix the dough with strong, sure hands. She tapped her on the shoulder and, when she turned to look, dabbed her nose with flour. “You look silly,” Clem laughed and stepped out of reach, “but your bread will be delicious.”

“You do act like a teenager.” Kizzy rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “Please check the coffee.” She smiled. “I need a cup to tame my tongue before getting myself in trouble.”

“Right away, my good wife.” Clem took their two enameled cups to the fire and poured the brewed coffee, moving the pot back from the coals where it would stay warm. She carried Kizzy’s to her, blowing across the surface to cool it before lifting it to her lips for a sip.

“Ah, that’s delicious,” sighed her wife, covering a greased bowl of raw dough with a damp towel and setting it inside the chuck box to rise. She joined Clem, already seated in one of their two chairs, arranged by the fire so they could see the stream.

“How far have we come?” Kizzy asked, gazing out at the beautiful horizon. “How much still to go?”

“We’ll be halfway when we reach the south pass through the Rocky Mountains, and that’s still a bit of traveling ahead. We made excellent time, and are farther along than my first trip in the same time, but it’ll be at least a week before we reach Fort Laramie where we’ll tie up for a few days to resupply and exchange animals. Then it’s another week to reach the south pass.”

Kizzy counted on her fingers. “But that has us going through the mountains in October.”

“Maybe a week earlier if we’re lucky. Some years there’s a lot of snow up there, some years there’s almost none. Mr. Cushing assures me that this is one of the no-snow years.”

“How would he know?” Kizzy’s blue eyes clouded. “What about the Donner train?”

“Last year was one of the heavy years.” She looked her wife in the eye. “I know, you’re wondering why I would take his word for it when others have died believing the same thing.”

“No, I trust your instincts.” Kizzy shook her pretty head. “I’m wondering how Mr. Cushing knows one year from another, and can he teach us how to do it?”

“I’ll ask him when I meet with him at noon.” Clem looked over the sleepy campground. “Want to go fishing for a couple of hours?”

“You go ahead,” laughed Kizzy, sensing her eagerness. “Bring home super, mighty provider. I’ll do the laundry, set it to dry, and bake the bread for the week.”

Clem fetched the fishing gear she’d prepared earlier, including a stout pole for deeper water, kissed Kizzy’s cheek as she sat sipping the last of her coffee, and followed the creek on the worn-down path leading to the lake with a light step. She’d miss her wife, but she loved to fish, and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

While threading a squirming worm on her hook an hour later, with six fat fish in her pail, Clem heard a loud snuffling noise in the brush. A dozen yards away, a mother bear and two half-grown cubs waded into the lake to drink, the cubs splashing each other with paws already wider than her face.

Her heart stopped and dropped into her belly like a stone. She was upwind, but that could change at any moment and she wasn’t willing to startle a mama bear. Sliding the fish out of her pail, she left them there. Picking up pole and pail, she crept with quick, silent steps away from shore until she felt safe enough to run, then she did, full out.

From around a bend in the lakeshore, she watched Mama and youngsters tear into her fish. “You’re welcome,” she muttered. “Enjoy my dinner for your breakfast.” Breathing a sigh of relief, she searched for a more open space for earlier warning. That was a bit too close.

“That was some pretty good running, Dennison,” called Mr. Cushing, standing on a rock outcropping as Clem rounded a bend. “Even better instincts to drop your catch first.”

Clem laughed, passing a relieved hand through her hair. “Mama Bear wanted fish, I wanted time to get away. Neither of us wanted a fight.” She shrugged. “I can catch more.”

“I saw you fishing there earlier, and later saw her coming along the shore with her young’uns before you did.” He gestured at the holstered gun strapped to his side. “I would have popped a shot in the air to warn you, but you high tailed it real quick before she knew you were there.”

He chuckled. “Smelling your missus’ fried fish last night probably hungered her, just like the rest of the camp. Paps drooled so much he sent me out here this morning to catch supper.” The tall, burly trail boss shrugged. “So far no luck.”

“Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. Cushing,” said Clem, as she kicked up a worm from under a rock at the shoreline. After baiting her hook, she threw a high arc, her gear landing with an almost silent plop in still water. Watching her line, she spared a glance at his equipment. “Your hook’s too big, and your line too thick, Mr. Cushing, for the kind of pan fish in this lake. Look there,” she said, staring at her pole tip jiggling. It stopped, then jiggled again. “Watch this,” she said, and when the fish struck, she jerked. Grabbing the line, she dropped her pole, grabbed the line, and pulled it in hand over hand, slow and steady toward them. When close enough, she yanked up, and the struggling fish flew out of the water landing on the bank. She put her foot on it, retrieved her hook, and tossed the flopping fish into her pail.

Mr. Cushing nodded his head while smoothing his mustache. “Call me Jed, Dennison,” he said, respect in his usual gruff tones.

This was a bit of masculine behavior she’d been through many times over the last few years, living as a man. Being on a first-name basis was enough to form loyal friendships. All told, she’d known Jed Cushing for three years, always maintaining a certain formality in their relationship. He was the leader, she the follower. But, recognizing what he offered, she returned it in kind, leaving them room to explore an easier, more relaxed relationship.

“Then I’m Clem, Jed,” she acknowledged with a nod of the head. She reached in her pocket and pulled another hook already attached to a thin, coiled line. “Why don’t you try this? Sorry I don’t have another weight, but you should do fine floating.”

The trail master reached over and took it with a nod. “Thanks, I will.”

Clem was landing her second fish by the time he attached his line and finished baiting, and stood watching her pull it in. “Your father teach you to fish like that?”

“No, he was too busy. He paid a fisherman who taught me.” She watched him throw his line out, the baited hook landing with a loud splash. “Fish have excellent hearing, Jed. Just like us, when they hear a scary noise, such as the sound of bigger fish breaking water, they duck and run.”