DOTT To The Ninth Crossing

DISCLAIMER: I do not own either A Song of Ice and Fire or a Game of Thrones. Nor do I own Daria Morgendorffer. The former belongs to GRR Martin and Daria belongs to MTV Viacom. This story based on the real Oregon Trail and has little or nothing to do with the computer game of the same name.

This is a western. The Westerosi characters here are smallfolk, not royalty or the nobility.

I am writing this story for my amusement and for ego gratification, not for profit. If you are enjoying this story, please consider writing and posting a review.

Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail*Daria on the Trail

Orrick Trout POV

I awoke the next morning in a much lighter mood than I had the day before. I had successfully brought my wagon train across Rocky Ridge, one of the worst roads I'd ever seen in either in Westeros or in America and I seem to have done it without losing a wagon or animals, a feat worthy of the old caravan masters I'd followed when I was a young man back in Westeros. I'd secretly worried that I was a pretend captain, no more worthy of the title than some goat dragged out of a paddock. I'd kept my fear at bay from the time I'd been elected to replace Thomas Ridge to the base of Rocky Ridge, but now I found that my title of Captain was no longer just an accolade, but something that I had actually earned. I could mute those small lingering voices that had whispered in my ear that I was naught more than an aging former landowner since I took over from Ridge back at Ash Hollow. I had proved myself. I was finally a trail boss.

"You're in a good mood," said Kara.

"Aye," I said. "Well, in spite of all we went through yesterday, we are on the other side of Rocky Ridge."

"I'll start breakfast," said Kara

Willem and my children drifted over from whatever they'd been doing. Each greeted me in turn.

"Where's Daria?" asked Minti.

"She's asleep," said Jilla, rolling her eyes.

"You might want to wake her up," I said. "We still have more travel ahead."

Daria awoke a short time later.

"I thought you'd be sleeping over by Lady Mudd's," I said.

Daria shrugged. "I asked her after I helped her unload her wagon yesterday evening. She said it was unnecessary and so I came back over here."

"You know she could use help loading her wagon," I said.

"I know," I said. "But her friends were helping her so I felt excused. I'll go back over there and help her yoke her oxen after breakfast."

"What's for today?" she asked.

"We had a rough climb yesterday. I want to inspect our wagons before we set out," I said.

"I'll try to glance over Mrs. Mudd's wagon after I help her harness her critters," she said. "I'd be grateful if you can tell me if there was something I overlooked." She ate hastily, then excused herself. After stowing her plate and utensils, she set off to help Mrs. Mudd find and yoke their oxen.

We were a little slow departing that morning. Our wagons had been badly shaken the day before and while I'd heard no reports of any serious damage from our travel, I was none too sure that we were ready to set out. I walked down the line of our wagons, carefully inspecting our people's axles, spokes and wheel rims. I saw nothing obvious, but I could almost hear one of my old caravan leaders speak in my ear saying "It's what you don't see that will give you trouble." I could see nothing wrong but I still fretted.

We broke camp a short time later. I let Captain Johnson lead his California company and by the grace of the Gods the dust wasn't that bad. We traveled seventeen miles that day. I inspected the wagons again when we paused for our mid-day: so far they seemed to be holding up. I was even able to sight-see, having not only views of the distant mountain ranges on either side of us but also of a herd of antelope and a herd of wild horses well beyond bow shot. Even so, despite the dry beauty of the lands surrounding us, some of the women were less than happy: there was little fuel available for our fires.

We passed a number of graves that afternoon. Graves were not unknown along the Trail: we'd seen more than a few since we first came to the Platte, but there were more here than we usually saw. I wondered what had killed them. Surely we were too far to the west for the Cholera to strike us? I thought about them and prayed that the Seven would judge their occupants' souls kindly in the next life.

Neither we nor the Johnson Company were the only wagon trains on the trail that day. There was a small company of Mormons traveling behind us. These Mormons used mules and, unlike some of the ones I'd seen earlier, they looked prosperous. They paused at the graves then knelt in prayer.

They camped near us that evening and I asked them what they could tell me about the people who'd been buried there. One of their Elders told me that a party of converts had been caught in a snowstorm several years ago and had been marooned for days until they were rescued. I was a Riverlander and could well imagine what it must have been like for them. I shuddered thinking about the poor souls slowly starving and freezing to death. When I asked the Elder why they were out on the Trail, the Elder refused to answer any more questions. That didn't stop me from including the souls of the frozen in my prayers.

Our evening was much as it was before, although Daria went over and ate with Mrs. Mudd and her friends. We'd had a good journey. The road was smooth. Our oxen and wagons were still holding up. Our people were still getting along together, Yankees and Andals alike and there were no great quarrels. Still, I felt there was a change in the offing: Daria told me the day before that we were approaching the turnoff for the Lander Road.

Despite the heat of the day, the night was surprisingly chilly. When I asked Daria about it later, she said that was because we were at a much higher elevation than we had been back at Scott's Bluff. When I asked her how high we were, she said that we were probably about seven thousand feet above sea level. Despite the chill, we slept well.

We set out the next morning at a more timely hour, hoping that we'd reach the turnoff before dark. The sun had yet to reach noon when we reached a Pony Express station. We'd passed more than a few since our Company had set out from Westport months ago, but someone had a sign near it: one saying LANDER ROAD, with an arrow pointing to it. We would leave the main road here and make our way to the Snake River Plain.

Daria:

My second full day with Mrs. Mudd was far less eventful. The Mudds' oxen and I were still unfamiliar with each other and I had some trouble yoking them. Watching me pick up the big, heavy yokes proved entertaining to some of the other people and I soon found that I had an audience. Still, when after Mrs. Mudd and I had succeeded in yoking the oxen, a couple of the men told that I'd done better than some of the California-bound greenhorns that they'd seen back at Westport. Thin praise but praise nevertheless.

My relations with the Mudds were more awkward. Mrs. Mudd and I didn't really know each other and we didn't have that much in common: she was the daughter of poor farmers from nineteenth century Indiana and I was a middle-class college student who'd spent most of her life in towns. Young Martin eyed me warily and I think if I were in his shoes, I'd have done the same.

Late in the afternoon we passed a cluster of graves. Graves were not uncommon along the trail. We paused and I walked over so look at them. They had unfamiliar names and their dates mostly centered around late 1856. I wondered whether they'd died of disease, then remembered that the Mormon Church Elders had sent a handcart company out this way in late 1856. They'd been out on the trail in October, well after travel season was over, and had been marooned for days in a snowstorm. Many of them died.

I shivered thinking about it. It was one thing to read about it or hear about it in some dry classroom lecture, but to see the aftermath was an emotional jolt. I thought about them and sent a generic prayer to the God or gods I still wasn't sure existed.

I slept with the Mudds that evening. It was colder than it would have been back in Texas this time of year: not only were we further north, we were also up in the mountains. When Mrs. Mudd decided that she was tired of shivering alone, she suggested that we shared blankets and I agreed. Little Martin joined us. We kept each other warm and we were able to sleep. The next day, she told me that she had shared the same bed with her sisters until she married Mr. Mudd.

The next morning I helped Mrs. Mudd load her wagon and prepare for another day on the trail. She then went off to round up her oxen while I cooked breakfast. I let her round up her cattle: they knew her but they didn't know me. We then set about yoking the oxen and putting away our cookware. We had to be near the turnoff for the Lander Road. I doubted we'd stay there long: we'd lost a lot of time with accidents and other repairs and seeing the Mormons' graves was a hard reminder about what cold and hunger could do to Emigrants trapped in the mountains by snow. It was becoming late July but I wasn't sure just when we'd reach the Blue Mountains: mid-September? Early October? It could snow by then.

A couple of hours later we reached a ford. I knew this was the Sweetwater, but was it the seventh crossing, the eighth crossing or was this the ninth crossing? I didn't know.

We crossed the river and continued our journey. A short time later we reached a collection of adobe buildings with wooden corrals and a few exterior adobe walls to discourage attacks. There was a sign near a turnoff: it said Lander Road. We'd reached the start of the cutoff.

-(((O-O)))—

Captain Johnson and Captain Trout halted our companies here. I'd expected our stop at the buildings at crossroads to be a brief one, a pause lasting a few minutes: Captain Trout would ask directions, some of us would use the outhouses, then we'd be back on our way. I learned that the ranch had more amenities than I thought when he sent Jilla to fetch me: it had a mail drop. It wasn't much; it was even less impressive than the one at Fort Caspar, but I could write letters and they'd be sent off to a post office. Given my druthers, I knew who I'd like to write: my family, Jane, Aunt Amy, and some of the people I knew at school. Those were impossible choices. Instead, I decided to write Bethany Ann and Marcus and, as an afterthought, Lieutenant Stokes.

I was not the only one who was going to set to letter-writing. Captain Trout walked down the line and told everyone that the station had a mail drop and that anyone who wanted to could write letters and leave them here for mailing. This proved instantly popular: at least a quarter of our company pulled out pens, ink, and paper and started writing.

After I'd finished my letter to Marcus and Bethany Ann, I noticed that Susana hadn't written anything.

"Do you want to borrow my pen?" I asked.

"I—" she began. "I can't write."

"Oh," I said.

"And I need to," she said. "Someone needs to tell his folks that Abel died."

"I can do dictation," I said.

She snorted with amusement, then told me to go ahead. I'd started writing down her story about Abel's death when there was a knock on the side of her wagon. It was Mrs. Haley.

"Susana, are you all right?" she said.

"I'm fine," Mrs. Mudd replied.

Denial is a wonderful thing, I thought, keeping my mouth shut.

"Daria is helping me write letters," she said.

"I can help if you want," she said.

"I'd like that," said Mrs. Mudd.

"You can take over if you want," I said to Mrs. Haley. "Here's what I've written down." I handed her what I'd written.

"You can use my pen but I want it back," I said. I had a couple of ballpoints in my handbag when I came over from ,y twenty-first century apartment.

"I'll give it back," said Mrs. Haley. "Don't worry."

I used the opportunity to excuse myself for a bit. I still have a couple of extra pens and I suspected that Captain Trout had more work for me. I was told that he was on good terms with a Septon back at Westport and I think he owed a favor to the Colonel back at Fort Laramie. By now the Trouts were almost fluent in spoken English but they still had trouble with the alphabet. That was where I came in: I'd take dictation for his letter to the Colonel and help him address his letter to the Septon and a Mrs. Farnsworth near St. Louis so the postman could read it.

Author's notes:

Spoken conversation in italics is in Andal (the main language of Westeros), not in English.

The graves described in this chapter were those of the unlucky Latter Day Saint handcart companies of 1856, who did get caught in the snows, suffering terrible injuries and loss of life.

This is the famous turnoff for the Lander Road. While I was able to find my way to what I believe was the Ninth Crossing of the Sweetwater last summer (July 2022), I was not able to visit the site of the buildings described in this chapter (They were burned during the Indian wars of the late 1860's). Their site is on private property and I did not have permission to be there. I drove as far as the fence line, took a couple of quick pictures, turned around, then made a hasty retreat.