Contents, 5
1. The Mormon Pioneer trek Challenge, 7
2. Ryan's Invitation, 18
3. The Lost Lease, 31
4. "I'll Put My Name Right Beneath His", 44
5. "Bishop, Put the Walker Family at the Head of That List!", 61
6. The Pioneer Gold and Green Ball, 74
7. "Old Ned Is Just a Big Old Baby", 86
8. "If Only We Could have Showers", 100
9. "I Myself Am a Work in Progress, 112
10. Sister Shumway's Surprise, 120
11. Testimonies At Trial's End, 131
About the Author, 143
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The day we left town on our Mormon Trek, it was bright and sunny, already hot, as only a plains state like Nebraska can get. I looked down Platte Avenue in front of the ward chapel. Covered wagons lined both sides of the street. Placid, cud-chewing oxen held their places in front of the wagons, as if they were bored at the prospect of their long trek across Nebraska. Loose horses and oxen were herded by the deacons into the makeshift corral in the parking lot. By now the boys knew every cow and horse and ox by name.
What I saw, and couldn't believe, was my dad. There he was, in his homemade woolen trousers and shirt, a new red-checkered handkerchief tied around his neck (a special last-minute gift from Mom), his favorite high-heeled cowboy boots a little run-over at the heels, brandishing his Stetson with a flourish at some animals that were trying to run off. My dad? Going on a Mormon outing? Hard to believe! But he'd come a long way back this winter, and I knew that fasting and prayer and the Mormon Trek had all helped.
I looked for Sally and Rachel. I sighed, lifting my dress out of the way of my feet. No sneakers, just heavy hiking boots. No blue jeans, just voluminous skirts and petticoats. Sweat trickled down my shoulder blades and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet. I saw Sally up ahead. I tried to hurry, but it took two hands to hold up my skirts, and both were full of journals, extra fIlm, my camera and my recorder. I was afraid they'd get lost in someone's wagon, or packed too deep, where I couldn't get at them in a hurry. I planned to carry them myself, every one of the hundred miles ahead of us.
Ryan was off to the right helping Dad, halloing at the oxen and trying to head them off. The "dumb" oxen were headed right for the flower beds behind the chapel.
I grabbed my skirts in one hand, gripped my handful of stuff, and ran to catch up. All those months of running, hiking, and exercising at the chapel paid off. I wasn't even out of breath when I got to the parking lot. I put my stuff down under a juniper, waved my hands, and hollered like a true pioneer. At least, I think pioneer girls could yell and gyrate their arms. One ox bellowed and ran, head down, straight for me. I could tell it didn't care much whether it went around me or through me, so at the last minute I stepped out of its way.
"Why didn't you hold your place?" my dad yelled, running past me.
"Christy!" snorted Ryan, rushing after Dad, who went after the ox.
Dad hollered at Ryan, "Head her off, Ryan! I'll try to get ahead of her. Turn her back."
I shrugged and turned to follow them. Then I saw a big brown-and-white ox that was about to run head-fIrst into Platte Avenue. With both Dad and Ryan running to turn the first ox, this one probably felt it had to go there, too. I gathered my skirts and tore off around the side of the makeshift corral. I've read enough stories about herding animals to know that you have to head off the runaways, just as Dad and Ryan were doing. I was scared to death that I'd get trampled under the ox's hooves, but I was more afraid to face Dad and Ryan later.
Just as I thought, the ox ran around the side of the corral. I stood there, waving my arms like a giant X, screaming, "Go back! Stop!" The ox rocked to a sudden stop just a little more than an arm's length in front of me. It was hard to believe Dad's notion that oxen were placid, gentle animals. The ox was close enough for me to see its red eyes. There was a lot of white around them. He was blowing hard, as if he'd run a long, hard race. I figured he was about as afraid of me as I was of him. But, since he was bigger than I was, I guessed my fear was bigger.
I tried to think whether I should say "Whoa" or "haw" or "gee" to him. I wasn't quite sure which word might make him lie down and purr like a kitten. Of course, I knew he wouldn't just give up for good with one word, so I tried a bunch of them. I was saying "please" and "thank you," working my way closer with each word. I knew Dad handled mean bulls just by holding the ring in their nose. I think I got to the words "pretty please," when I was close enough to slowly stretch out my hand and grab the ox's nose ring. Just then, Dad quietly came around the side and stopped short, when he saw me holding the huge brass ring. The ox stood quietly by my side, not throwing its head from side to side, not blowing noises. Just placid, quiet, gentle.
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