Daria On The Trail:
Devil's Gate and Target Practice
DISCLAIMER: A Song of Ice and Fire was created by George RR Martin. I do not own it. Nor did I create either Earl or Daria Morgendorffer. Earl was created by Mike Judge and the Daria spinoff was created by Glen Eichler. I own neither nor the franchises.
This story is not based on the Oregon Trail computer game but on my own research.
Once again, the idea from this story came from a work by Ultimate Paladin
Also, reviews would be very nice.
Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail
Daria:
The evening we arrived at Devil's Gate, Captain Trout announced that we would have a weapons drill early the next day. Having seen the rugged terrain around Devil's Gate, I thought his decision was a wise one: Devil's Gate didn't attract as big a crowd as Independence Rock and, more importantly, the rock faces near the small canyon lessened the chance of someone accidentally getting shot while our Company tried out our firearms, even though there was what I hoped was a thin chance of someone getting injured by a ricochet as one or more of our bullets bounced off the rocks.
By now I was armed, most of it coming from the discard piles at Fort Laramie and just beyond. My arsenal was perhaps de trop by Hollywood standards: a muzzle-loading rifle, a cap-and-ball Remington revolver, and a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun for last-ditch close-quarters work should Indians or other marauders break into our circled wagons. At the moment, I kept my weapons in Willem's wagon and I kept the rifle and shotgun unloaded. The pistol did have bullets in it but I'd left one of the chambers in the cylinder empty, an idea I'd stolen from a Louis L'Amour story: less chance of my pistol accidentally going off as Willem's wagon rocked and bounced along the trail. It was stupid, but I thought there would be less risk.
I had ammunition as well: some Emigrants had set off from their jumping-off points armed to the teeth and after crossing the Plains decided that maybe they didn't need enough gunpowder and bullets to fight a small war. I also had a couple of targets, too: a couple of garbage books that I'd decided were suited for either being shot at or used a page or two at a time for sanitation or starting a campfire. One of them was written by a Phrenologist supposedly proving the racial superiority of Europeans over Africans and Native Americans: I hoped my marksmanship had recovered to the point where I could put some holes in the text before I or some of the Trouts could wipe our butts with its pages.
Devil's Gate was a puzzler. A river, actually a creek by Maryland standards, had cut a course through a ridge of stone over thousands of years. That in itself was no big deal, but why there? Water tends to flow through paths of least resistance and there were other, lower places next to the rock of the Gate. Had there been other rock once upon a time? If so, what had happened to it? I couldn't believe that some long-lost city-building civilization had gone in and done some quarrying right then and there. Was there a glacier here back in the Ice Ages? Had the ice worn down the ridge? How did it do it? I didn't know.
My musings were limited. I was very tired and the most I could do was to look up and admire the pretty stars. I wrapped myself in my blanket, wishing I had a pillow or two with me, then fell asleep.
The next morning was much like a typical day on the trail, but not quite. I got up before dawn, helped the rest of us pack most of our gear back into the wagon, then helped Kara and Jilla light the fire (I miss matches!) and cooked breakfast. Our fare was our usual bacon and flatbread: the Trouts and I had no luck finding any berries and we'd long since eaten the gifted cabbages I'd acquired at Fort Laramie weeks ago. After dousing the campfire, I went to my small arsenal and waited for Captain Trout to give us the order to assemble.
I didn't wait long. Kennard pulled out his bugle and blasted it seven times: our Company's code for danger and for assembling our defense force. I picked up my pistol, my rifle, and the cloth bag that contained my ammunition and waited for Captain Trout to give the order to form up. A drill instructor would have either had conniption fits or laughed himself silly, but we did assemble: the adult American males, older male teens (Both Americans and Westerosi), those Westerosi males who had guns, our pet Englishman Parkhurst, Jankin Brook and one Daria Morgendorffer. Together we set off for the cliffs of Devil's Gate.
It took us twenty minutes to get to where Captain Trout had decided we'd set up the firing line. Once he got there, he discovered that he'd forgotten to bring targets. He risked embarrassment by asking pro forma if anyone had brought targets with them and was relieved when he learned that I had brought the phrenologist's screed and a badly-written romance done by someone who'd plagiarized from James Fenimore Cooper. He set about tearing out sections of my books and handing them out to our troupe of marksmen.
My donation had roused Parkhurst's curiosity, causing him to walk over to where I was standing. I motioned for him to hold off his questions until Mr. Wilson was satisfied that I'd loaded my rifle correctly. After waiting until Mr. Wilson told "Fancy" Morgendorffer that she'd correctly loaded her rifle, Parkhurst seized the opportunity.
"I say, Daria, but I'm surprised that you'd give out books to use as targets," he said. "You strike me as the sort of woman who'd love and cherish books and reading."
"You're right," I replied. "I do enjoy books and reading. But one of those books is pseudoscientific clap-trap and the other is a crime against literature. Whoever wrote the romance stole from James Fennimore Cooper hand over fist and then couldn't be bothered to write a decent story. I've sentenced it to execution, with neither a blindfold or a last cigar before sentence is carried out. I like good books. I don't like tripe."
Parkhurst's eyes went wide in response and he gave a short laugh. "You're a woman of strong opinions, I see," he said.
"I can be, at least when it's something I know about," I replied. Shortly afterwards we set up our targets up against the rocks, and we returned to the firing line.
When Captain Trout announced that the range was open, I opened fire. I did better this time than I ad before: I had a little more familiarity with my weapons, pioneer drudgery had built up my arms and shoulders, and I had a better sense of my black-powder firearms' limitations. When we'd ceased fire, I walked over to the rock face and was amused to see that the leaves I'd set out had bullet holes in them. I'd managed to hit the target. Not only had I managed to hit the target, I'd managed to hit it not once, but three times, even if I'd only managed to nick the edge on one of my tries.
After looking at my handiwork, I set the battered pages back against the rock and returned to the firing line. I set the rifle aside: this time I was going to use my Remington.
When I turned around, I was surprised to learn that we'd attracted an audience. A couple of the other companies had pulled over and some of their people had decided to walk over and observe Captain Trout's people's target practice. I hoped that my old mentor was not among them, but my hopes were dashed when I heard Earl yell "Looking good, Daria!" I turned around and stuck out my tongue. I then set myself back to the business of shooting. When Captain Trout gave the order, I opened fire, firing one, two, three bullets, and noting with satisfaction that I'd perforated a piece of bad literature.
During a lull, Earl decided to inset himself into the proceedings. "I'd like to try," he said.
Keeping my pistol pointed skywards, I looked at Captain Trout and gestured that Earl would like to try his luck with my revolver. Captain Trout frowned at me for breaking discipline, then gestured in a way that showed he was giving Earl a chance to show off. I backed away and let Earl take aim. Earl took the standard position, looking down the pistol's sight at the book pages propped against the cliff. I watched as he carefully took aim, then squeezed the trigger.
The bullet flew out of the barrel, then ricocheted away from the rock. The book remained where it was. Earl handed me the pistol and blushed.
"Thanks," he said.
I'd already decided on my response: the less said, the better.
"You're welcome," I replied.
-(((O-O)))-
Captain Trout called an end to target practice shortly afterwards. We returned to our wagons, I stowed my modest arsenal, and after we are our noon meal, we set off. We didn't go that far that day, although we did put in more miles than we had the day before. By the time Captain Trout signaled where we'd pause for the evening, I had my first view of Split Rock.
Author's notes:
For those not in the know, Daria Morgendorffer was a recurring secondary character in Beavis and Butthead before being set in her own spin-off series. Earl was another recurring secondary character from B&B. Daria, Earl, Beavis and Butthead lived in a mythical Texas town called Highland. I decided to use Daria and her point of view for this story. She's highly intelligent, well-read, if not as resourceful and all-knowing as a typical Mary Sue.
Split Rock is another interesting feature along this section of the Trail. From a distance it looks like someone or something formed a giant V-shaped split in the rock formations that form Split Rock. To Daria, it might look like the sort of notch found in a gun-sight. Diarists remarked that Split Rock remained in view for several days of travel and Our Heroine will have time to think about it.
I might "speed up" this story before setting it aside. It's going to be set near someplace I saw last summer, but it's still three weeks' travel by covered wagon for Daria's company.