Page 59 of My Darling Clementine

“I spent a week in last position during my first crossing,” Clem’s eyes clouded with the memory. “It’s miserable. Took me a half-dozen baths to get the dust out of every crevice.”

“What got you put at the end?” Curious, Kizzy stared at this woman she barely knew.

“I got drunk, overslept, and woke up with the wagon train an hour ahead of me. When I caught up, Mr. Cushing had me stay there to remind me to be on time. I worked my way up to fifth place before we arrived.” She shook her head. “It’s better than last, but not half as good as first.”

“Did you get drunk a lot?” Kizzy asked. “I’ve never seen you that way.”

Clem’s cheeks flushed. “I get pretty uncomfortable during my monthlies,” she confessed. “Drinking dulls the pain, but also the brain, and explains the occasional belly spasms. And whiskey covers the smell. It’s the hardest part of being female to hide when you live among men.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Kizzy nodded. “What do you do with the bloody rags?”

“Wash them at night when I can. If they get too bad, I bury, or better yet, burn ‘em.” She shook her head, running a hand through her tousled blond curls. “I hate the curse.”

“Mama and I always had it at the same time.” She nodded, “And I remember some talk among the church ladies that women who live together often do.” She looked at Clem. “When are you supposed to start?”

“I’m a few days late.” Clem shrugged. “I’m usually regular as clockwork, every twenty-seven or -eight days. But I think all the excitement of finding you, getting married, and pulling lead in the wagon train put me off. How about you?”

“It’s another week for me,” said Kizzy. But in the morning, she felt the first cramps that signaled her own onset, and got a stack of rags ready to hand. She mentioned it to Clem over breakfast, who grimaced.

“Me, too,” she said, blushing. “I jinxed myself talking about it. I’m wearing three rags between my legs, which is why I’ll walk funny for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll drive the first two hours, then change before we switch, and once you’re back in the wagon you can change, too. Then, you do the same when we switch again.” She looked around and plucked the tin pail from inside the wooden bucket. “Leave the soiled ones in here while we’re moving.” She grinned and winked. “That way we can change every few hours, and on the first day it makes a difference, for me at least.”

Clem looked surprised. “I’ve always waited to change until we broke camp. That’ll make a tremendous difference in comfort, and smell.”

“I’ll wash them tonight and hang them to dry under the wagon, like the other women do,” she thought out loud. “A couple of them might wonder at the strength of my flow, but that’s not their business.”

“We can rinse them in the river and wash them in the pail with boiling water. I’ll fetch and carry an extra bucket every night when we’re cursed.”

Kizzy nodded. She’d grown used to boiling water every night in camp to replace that they used during the day for drinking, cooking, and washing. “Seems a little silly, though, with the river right there.”

“I know, but there’s a lot of disease along this trail.” Clem’s eyes clouded. “Barney told me typhoid, dysentery, and cholera are caused by unsanitary conditions. Too many people traveling the same way. They leave their waste behind, and even if buried it seeps into the river when it rains. People get tired and lazy after a while. They use still, stagnant water that pools along the banks, rather than crossing to mid-stream for moving water.” She sighed.

“Barney said if people boiled their water for ten minutes before using it, only a quarter as many would catch sick. We’ve only just started our journey, but we’ll see graves along the way, more now than when I crossed before, I’m sure. Mr. Cushing wasn’t exaggerating. On my first trip across there were thirty-three wagons with seventy-eight prospectors. Only twenty-four of us made it to California.”

Kizzy heard remembered pain in Clem’s voice as she passed a hand over her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve dug a whole lot of graves and I will again, I know.” She sighed and looked up. “That’s why I boil water every chance I get.”

“I understand,” she said, noting Clem’s distress. “I’ll make sure to use only boiled water.” She looked worried. “What about our mules, though?”

“We can’t boil enough water for them and us. They’re a hardy breed, though, and will make it across better than we will.”

“Especially if we don’t get going, the sun’s rising. You hitch up today’s team while I wash and stow things. And,” she teased, “since you’ll be changing in a few hours, you can take out a rag or two so you can walk better.” Kizzy laughed, happy when Clem’s expression lightened.

Her plan worked, keeping them both clean and comfortable. The two switched off so often she learned to climb up and down while the wagon moved without help, her shorter split skirt making it easier.

The weather was fair, and the train made good time, often traveling over twenty-five miles a day. But a month later, while riding, Kizzy noticed something off with little Molly.

“She grazes along with the others,” she pointed out to Clem when they made camp that Saturday afternoon, several hours early. “But look at her, she’s losing weight. You don’t think she’s sick, do you?”

Clem ran an assessing hand over the mule, taking stock of bone and muscle. “She seems healthy, but you’re right, she’s smaller than when we started out. I’ll ask Mr. Cushing to take a look at her when he’s got a minute, but we camped early because a fellow fell out of his wagon and broke his shoulder. He and Paps are setting the bone right now.”

“Oh,” said Kizzy, remembering the sharp shout of pain she’d heard about a half-hour ago. She watched Clem clamber inside the wagon for something, then climb back down. “What’ve you got there?”

“Fishing hook and line, now I need to make a pole.” She tilted her head, eyes dancing. “There’s a fair-sized lake about a half mile over there if you follow the branch in the river through the woods. I spotted it on the trail map a few days ago, but thought we’d camp too far to get to it.” She grinned, untying the empty pail from the side of their wagon. “Fancy some fresh fish for dinner?”

“Lord, yes, I’m drooling all ready.” Kizzy was curious. “May I come with you? I’ve never been fishing.”

“Of course, Mrs. Dennison,” declared Clem, gesturing downstream, through a dense copse of wood. “You deserve a break every bit as much as I do. Let’s go.”