Chapter 8: Crossing the Desert

The trail to Fort Bridger wound through foothills scarred by mining camps, abandoned claims, and overgrown wagon roads. The sisters walked single file, their packs light but their bodies weary.

As usual, Greta led, steady and silent. Lise followed, scanning the land with the caution she had learned from the Cheyenne. They only had a rough map, a goal, and hope.

The land between Mud Creek and Fort Bridger wasn’t empty. It was restless, unpredictable, and shaped by the desperation of men chasing gold. They passed through ghostly clusters of tents and shacks ... fires long cold, tools scattered, the ground churned by hurried departures. Irmgard shivered.

“Why did they leave so fast?” asked Irmgard

Greta answered quietly. “Because the gold ran out ... or they heard of better prospects elsewhere.”

Or because something worse had come.

Twice they saw men in the distance ... too far away to tell if they were prospectors or drifters ... who watched them for too long. The sisters hid until the men moved on. Lise kept a hand on the hunting knife she carried, though she prayed she’d never need to use it as a weapon.

Their provisions dwindled although the game they caught supplemented their diet. They rationed carefully, stretching dried meat and roots over long days. Their success at catching game helped, and there were plenty of berries and roots to be found. Adelheid contracted an illness, although she insisted that they don’t stop. They slowed their pace for a few days, particularly as Irmgard was also struggling to keep up.

Early summer storms swept across the plains without warning ... sheets of rain, sudden cold, wind that tore at their cloaks. They huddled beneath fallen trees or rocky overhangs, shivering until the storms passed. They had reached the Green River on their fifth day of travel and followed the wagon road southwest towards Fort Bridger.

The road was in better condition than the stretch towards Mud Creek. Before long a freight wagon approached them from behind. The driver, Tom, was initially wary of strangers, particularly as the sisters were wearing Cheyenne clothing. However he relaxed when he realised the sisters were immigrants from Europe. He offered them a ride as far as Fort Bridger.

One night, as Tom and the sisters camped beneath a cluster of pines, they heard voices drifting through the dark ... men arguing, drunk or angry. The sisters froze, listening.

“ ... saw tracks ... women, maybe...”

“ ... don’t care who they are...”

“ ... worth something...”

Lise motioned for silence. They smothered their fire and hid among the trees, barely breathing. The voices passed, fading into the night.

“I’ll get you safely to Fort Bridger,” said Tom. “But you need to consider whether to continue on without someone to protect you. There are eight men for every woman in these parts ... four pretty young women travelling alone is a recipe for trouble.

They slept little that night.

Fort Bridger was the dividing point for the migrant trails. The Oregon trail headed northwest, while the California trail turned southwest. The sisters had crossed the Rocky mountains many miles north of the migrant trail through South Pass. Now their route had rejoined the trail they had left when Silas Hawthorne’s men had captured them.

Fort Bridger was crowded, noisy, and not without danger for unescorted women. It was late summer and wagon trains arrived almost daily. Single men and widowers were on the look out for a wife or servant. Although there were still many miles to travel, the men were already contemplating a future life once they reached California or Oregon. For those who planned to homestead, then a woman to raise children was an essential part of that dream.

Although their journey would be easier ... and to some degree safer ... if they travelled with a wagon train, all four sisters had been subjected to the usual propositions while at Fort Bridger. Their Cheyenne clothing discourage proposals of marriage, but there were plenty of offers akin to those Silas Hawthorne undoubtedly intended. Even so, Lise and Greta occasionally spread their legs in order to fatten their purse. They weren’t the first impoverished migrant woman to earn coin in that fashion, and they weren’t the last. Any sense of morality over sex for sale was lost back in Germany, long before the sisters departed.