Departure by Howard Fast

Stop that whimpering. God help a woman when a man has itching feet.”
    I gathered chips and started the fire. When I took water from the keg for mush, the keg was just about empty. I didn’t mention that to Ma. She went about preparing supper slowly, awkwardly, and Maude watched her, frightened.
    Ma kept glancing at the west.
    â€œBe dark soon,” I said
    â€œGuess Pa’ll be here any minute,” Ma said dully. I could tell that she didn’t believe that.
    â€œI guess so,” I nodded.
    We ate without speaking much. Ma didn’t eat a great deal. As soon as we had finished, she went into the wagon.
    Maude was saying: “I don’t see how I can clean dishes without water. You fetch some water, Dave.”
    â€œThere ain’t no water,” I said.
    Maude stared at me, her eyes wide and frightened. She had heard stories, just the same as I had, about pilgrims who ran out of water. She opened her mouth to say something.
    â€œWhat about Ma?” I asked her quietly, nodding at the wagon.
    â€œWhy don’t Pa come back?”
    â€œAin’t no sense thinking about Pa if he ain’t here. What about Ma? I guess it won’t be long.”
    She shook her head.
    â€œYou don’t need to be scared,” I muttered. “It won’t do no good to be scared. I reckon the worst part of this trip is over.”
    â€œWhere’s Pa?” she whispered. “What happened?”
    â€œHow do I know what happened? You girls make me sick. I never seen anything to beat you girls.”
    I got up and went over to the water keg. I shook it, hoping, without having any reason to hope. I knew it was just about empty. We had plenty of food—dried meat and meal and dried beans—enough to last a month, I guess. But Ma would need water.
    Maude was crying.
    â€œWhy don’t you go to bed?” I said. “Go in and sleep with Ma. I’ll stay out here.”
    â€œYou’re not big enough to stay out here alone,” Maude said, but I knew she was afraid to stay inside the wagon with Ma. I knew how she felt, and I didn’t blame her for the way she felt, she was such a kid, with Ma petting her all the time. We couldn’t talk it over between ourselves, and that would have made it a lot better. But we couldn’t.
    â€œI’m plenty big enough,” I said.
    Inside the wagon Ma groaned, and out on the prairie a coyote was barking. There’s nothing like a coyote barking to make your insides crawl. I was all shivers, and I could see that Maude wanted to stay close to me. But that wouldn’t have made it any better.
    â€œGet in the wagon, damn you!” I cried. I was glad Ma couldn’t hear me swear. Ma would lick me good and plenty when I swore like that.
    Surprised, Maude stared at me. Then, without a word, she went into the wagon.
    I stood there, outside, for a while. It had grown quite dark. In the sky there was a faint reflected light of the sun, but it was quite dark. I walked over to the wagon and picked up one of the mule blankets. It was a warm night, summertime; I decided to put the blanket under the wagon and lie down on it.
    I heard Maude saying her prayers in the wagon, but no sound from Ma. I couldn’t say my prayers. Usually, Ma saw to it that I did, but tonight I couldn’t say a word aloud. I tried, opening my mouth, but no words came out. I thought them, as much as I could. I tried not to think about Pa. Spreading the blanket, I lay down on it, holding the carbine close to me. It seemed a part of Pa and all that was left; I hugged it.
    I couldn’t sleep. I tried for a long time, but I couldn’t sleep. It was quite dark now, with no moon in the sky. The mules were moving restlessly; probably because they wanted water.
    I think I dozed a little. When I opened my eyes again, the moon was just coming up, yellow and bloated. I felt chilled thoroughly. Bit by bit, what had happened during the day came back, and now it