Sheepeater

Erik Larson stood within earshot of the two men, his sister standing beside him.
"Sorry, it's gotta be this way, Jon," Jack Slade said. "You've done your best. I got these other folks to worry about."
"Ja," Jon Larson replied quietly. "I understand. I expected what you'd say."
The men finished talking, and his father turned their way. His sister clung to him. Erik glanced into her worried face and squeezed her. He told her it would be okay. "Det kommer att bli okej, Katrine." Erik spoke Swedish. His sister spoke English, but he hadn't learned much. He tried but felt uncomfortable around those who were not Swedish. He had not made friends the way Katrine had.
Slade approached them, but Erik's father waved him away.
Erik tapped on the wagon. "Papa's coming, Mama." His mother lie sick in the wagon bed.
She braced herself up; her light blond hair shone in the autumn sun, contrasting with her pale blue-washed eyes and pale skin. She appeared drawn and thin.
Grim faced, his father addressed them. "They're going to move on ahead. Afraid Mama Larson has the sickness. Afraid she'll make more sick and more folks will die."
Erik saw the pain and disappointment cross his mother's face. He felt his own hopes shatter. His mother nodded. She knew. Katrine clung to him harder, trembling.
His father glanced at him, the flash in his eyes telling him to be strong-that he depended on him. He pulled Katrine to him. "Katrine, you're going on with the Olafsons. They'll take good care of you until we catch up."
"But, Papa …" Tears sprang to her eyes. "I want to be with you. I want us to be together."
"We will be … soon … when Mama Larson gets better. Then Erik and I will be right along. Now give your mother a hug and a kiss."
With tears in her eyes, the little girl climbed into the wagon bed and did so.
Erik helped her back down while his father gathered her things. "We'll see you soon, Katrine. Papa says maybe less than a week."
"But Erik, I want you to come with me."
That had been suggested, but Erik would have nothing to do with it. "I have to help Mama and Papa," he spoke quietly. "You know they need me."
"I need you too. I'll miss you."
"We'll be right behind you, Katrine," Erik replied.
"But what if you get lost?"
"We won't."
"But what if you do?" The small girl began to panic.
"Then I'll come and find you."
"Promise, Erik?" Erik hugged his sister. "Of course I promise, Katrine." He didn't want to follow along behind either, but he knew that if this were the sickness, it would be better for his sister to continue ahead with the others. "You have my sacred word, Katrine. No matter what happens, I'll come and find you."
With tears still in her eyes, she smiled. "Thank you, Erik." She threw her small arms around him and kissed his cheek.
The Olafsons' young daughter, Mia, came up, took his sister by the hand, and led her away. "Come on, Katie. You can ride with me. We'll play with my dolls."
Olafson clucked to his team and turned toward the trail. "See you soon, Jon." He reached down to shake hands. "I'll be saving some planting ground for you. Just you get Ruthie well."
"Ja, I will," Jon replied.
Bobbing and swaying, the wagon pulled into line behind the others as they headed northwest toward the barren, basalt-strewn hills.
In the back of the wagon, Katrine picked up one of the dolls and waved it at Erik. "We get to play." A smile showed on her face. "Good-bye, Erik. Good-bye, Mama. Good-bye, Papa. I love you."
"Adjö, Katrine. I love you too," Erik said softly and waved until he could no longer see his sister's bobbing, blond head. He bit his lip.
His father noticed. "Have faith, Erik. I'm thinking Mama Larson will be okay in a couple days. Then we'll catch up."
Jon turned to Slade. "Jack, I'll try to follow a couple days behind." Then, quietly, he added, "If this is the sickness like the others … well, Erik and I'll cut the wagon and catch up." Grimly, they shook hands.
"Sorry about all this, Jon. You've been a good hand. Got a good son and wife. Got a good daughter. I'll make sure to look after her." He pulled his horse back onto the trail. "We'll see you, one way or the other, Jon. Now I gotta get these folks through before more snow hits."
As they watched the train move out across the desolate land, Jon glanced at the gray autumn sky. "Weather's closing in, Erik," he said. "If we get hit by another early storm, no one's going to make it. They'll all be back here in one big, happy camp." He tried to laugh.
Erik studied the broken land. He remembered when they first entered the lava beds. When they turned north from the Snake River, they had entered the most desolate country he'd yet seen. Only sparse grasses, sagebrush, and prickly pear covered the jagged rocks. Black basalt jutted up in eerie, twisted sculptures, interrupted infrequently by stunted trees. Pronghorn and jackrabbits had been the only game. Sometimes a hawk or an eagle hung in the sky. The sun had been merciless. The wind drove dirt and grit into his eyes and ears. His eyes had stung. His lungs had ached.
They had packed as much water as they could from the Snake River, but it quickly ran out. They had continued on, heading toward the butte that Slade said marked the point where the trail again headed west and where the next water source was. When at last they had reached it, they found only a trickle--hardly enough for the stock. They stayed several days, losing valuable time, nursing water from the seep until they had partially refilled their barrels.
That's when the Backstroms became ill, Erik remembered.
He turned to his father. "What if Mama does have the sickness?"
"Hush, Erik. She doesn't. She's just got a touch of mountain fever. It'll pass," he reassured him. "Come on now, lad. Let's fix a camp and get a fire going. Going to be cold again tonight."
Erik didn't know what to think. He wanted to believe this, but just a few weeks back, the sickness had taken its first life, the Backstroms' young daughter, then their son, and within days, the Backstroms themselves, an entire family.
What if Mama died? What if he got sick? … or Papa got sick? That was the real reason they sent Katrine ahead--the reason they wanted him to go as well. But he would have no part in it. His place was with his parents. The chill wind ruffled his hair.
His father spoke. "We'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow or the next day, we'll get back on the trail, figuring on when Mama Larson can travel."
He helped his father hobble the animals. They couldn't afford to have them wander far.
"It's for the best, Erik. Mama Larson couldn't go on. The wagons couldn't stop anymore. When she gets some rest, we can continue."
"Sure, Papa," replied Erik. His heart wasn't in it, and he knew his mother wasn't strong--never was--not like the rest of them.
. . .
[That night] Erik listened to the wind, growing distressed. Before, he believed they could catch up. Now, he feared that the snow would trap them and that his mother really would die. He envisioned himself and his father burying her along the trail and then continuing alone, trying to catch up.
Erik glanced at his mother. She looked pale and thin. He