The large orange globe rising over the eastern horizon predicted a day similar to the last two: hot and breezeless. On a small knoll two does stood quietly with a buck at their side. A few morning birds called and flitted in the tall grass, unmindful of the wagons passing down the well-worn trail toward the Pecos River. They ascended a steep hill, then traveled across a prairie that led to the riverbank. This was the only point within miles where the banks were not high and rocky. The ferry was run by a friendly man of indeterminate age who hid his surprise at finding so many women accompanied by so few men. The wagons were loaded onto the ferry two at a time, lashed down, and a man stood at the head of each team. Tucker and Laura were among the first to cross. Upon disembarking, Tucker drew up the mules and halted the wagon alongside the trail so the other wagons coming off the ferry could pass. She dreaded this day as she had dreaded no other. Alone with Laura near the end of the line with the Collins wagon directly behind her, she knew she would have to suffer Frank’s presence before the day was over.
