Free Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 by Victoria Murata

alarmed and ran to the wagon in disbelief. “She was here when we made camp,” he said. “We’ve got to find her. She’s not well! Go and ask people if they’ve seen her. I’m going to look by the river. Maybe she went for water.” But even as he said it, they both saw the water bucket hanging from the wagon.
    Brenna ran from wagon to wagon asking everyone if they had seen Mrs. Mueller, but no one had. Everyone was busy trying to get chores done and dinner made in the steady drizzle. The evening was getting grayer, and so were Brenna’s hopes. Where could the little woman have gone?
    Brenna’s search had taken her away from the camp, and now the voices were barely audible. The drizzle had mostly stopped, but the mist was rolling in from the river, and visibility was poor.
    “Mrs. Mueller!” Brenna called over and over as she wandered farther from camp. Where could she be? Brenna wondered. I have to find her! The sound of a wolf howling a ways off startled her. She stopped, shivering in the cool damp air, remembering the evil wolf from the story of Little Red Cap. Then she shook her head, realizing that the h owl was probably a coyote, not a wolf. Brenna strained her eyes, trying to make out what was ahead of her. A form materialized briefly, insubstantial in the mist. Brenna squinted trying to make it out and softly called, “Mrs. Mueller?” She felt the hair on her arms and on the back of her head rise. Her grandmother had said she was able to see spirits. Was that a spirit she had just seen? Surely Mrs. Mueller would have answered her. Brenna moved forward slowly towards where the vision had been.
    “Mrs. Mueller? It’s me, Brenna.” She could barely get out the words. The mist moved over her, engulfing her in its damp clutches. The coyote called again, mournfully. There! A vague form drifted ahead, tendrils of hair swirling about a gray face. The mist cleared momentarily, and Brenna felt a scream in her throat.
    “Grandmother!” Yes, she could see spirits! There was her grandmother, just ahead. In the next instant, she realized it wasn’t her grandmother. It was Mrs. Mueller! Brenna ran to the old woman. Mrs. Mueller was chilled to the bone and seemed unaware of Brenna’s presence. She shivered violently, but her skin was hot when Brenna put her arm around her shoulders.
    “Come on, Mrs. Mueller. Let’s get you back to the wagon and into some dry clothes.” The mist had lifted enough for Brenna to find their way back, and John Mueller met them when they were almost to the camp.
    “Thank God you found her! Mother, where were you going?” he asked. Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond, and Brenna looked anxiously at the reverend.
    “She’s feverish,” she said. They hurried to the wagon, and Brenna helped the old woman change into dry clothes while John heated water for hot tea. Brenna kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t respond. She didn’t even seem to recognize Brenna.
    News spread through the camp, and many people stopped by to see how Mrs. Mueller was doing. Everyone was nervous about cholera. Brenna’s parents were worried too, but Mrs. Mueller didn’t have the symptoms of cholera. Ruth Benson and James Cardell decided that she had caught a chill and the resulting fever was very debilitating to her weakened condition. A quick consultation determined that she should be given a drop of aconite in a bit of water every hour for six hours—no more, no less. Aconite would be effective in reducing the fever, but if taken in larger doses it could be fatal. As they were discussing who would administer the medicine, Reverend Mueller spoke up.
    “I’ll give her the medicine.”
    “You can’t stay up all night, John. You’ll be no use in the morning. You need to get your rest,” Thomas Benson said. The wagon train would not stop or slow down for sickness. Captain Wyatt kept everyone on schedule no matter what happened.
    Brenna looked around at the concerned faces. “I