Free All Together in One Place by Jane Kirkpatrick

wore a dark caplike hat that fit tightly over her ears and tied beneath her chin.
    “Go ahead, then,” the leader sighed.
    “My intent was only to remind,” the woman said. She stood stiff as an ivory comb, her hair pulled so tightly back into a bun it caused her eyes to look almost almond-shaped in the firelight. Mazy noted her bulbous nose, narrow lips, and tight collar held by a cameo pin. A cross on a chain around her neck flashed against the firelight. “Surely a man of the cloth is present?”
    “Yah. Do we have a preacher, then?” Heads turned to look. In the more than a thousand wagons now gathered, there would be dozens, that's what Jeremy told Mazy when she'd asked about their spiritual “essentials.” But apparently none gathered in this small cluster of wagons at this fire. Mazy wondered how they'd come to settle in a grouping without even one man of God to bless their efforts.
    Music drifted across the gatherers. Many were already dancing beyond them. She could hear the calls and fiddle from the far reaches closer to the river.
    The man spoke up. “Will you be leading us then…?”
    “Sister Esther. And no, it is not my place.”
    The man shifted on his heels. “Yah, well.” He said it with a kind of whine, as if annoyed by a problem brought to his attention without a ready solution. “There being no preacher present, I'll offer up. Let's bow” Mazy heard the hush of hats being removed as she closed her eyes. “Lord, we're glad you came to this meeting, then. Help us pay attention and not go off all bullheaded like I can…like we can ” He coughed, as awkward as a schoolboy unpracticed in public praying. Mazy gave him credit for his effort. They might all be saying new prayers before this journey ended
    His “Amen. Name's Schmidtke,” sounded like one word. Eyes lifted and he gazed across the group. “Antone Schmidtke Late of New York. Got three wagons, a hundred head of cattle, four ox teams, some horses and mules, a boy, Matt, and one teamster, Joe Pepin. Good men, they are. Wave your hats, boys. Yah, then. Been farming my life long. Hope to keep doing it West. We're civilized folks, the Schmidtkes are. Know that men need rules to make it in a venture like this. Enforce ‘em fair I'd make you a good captain. My teamster's been this way once before so we've got trained eyes.”
    “Ya left out yer wife,” someone yelled from beyond the firelight. “Ya got one a those, don't ya?”
    “What? I did?” A few men chuckled. “Where you sitting then, Lura?” His eyes stopped at a small, straight-sitting woman quietly clicking knitting needles and wearing a lap of yarn. A slender lookalike girl sat beside her. “Wave then,” he said and she did, a shy smile flashing across the woman's face before she dropped her eyes. The firelight flickered against her bodice laced with sewing needles and pins. She wore pearl combs in her hair and chewed on a smokeless clay pipe.
    “Left out his daughter, too,” Mazy whispered, leaning to her mother.
    Ruth Martin returned, perched her nieces on her lap. “You have a daughter as well. What's her name?”
    “I forgot my girl? Mariah, she is,” Antone said, his thumb and finger massaging his chin, eyes scanning but not stopping. “If we can get past the ancestral count…now to business. Don't need to be blabbing all night, then.”
    “Looks like you're the only one blabbing,” someone shouted— Mazy couldn't tell who—and the group burst into guffaws. The darkness offered protection so people didn't have to own their observations or ideas unless they stood closer to the light for recognition.
    Antone Schmidtke opened one button of his high collar. He was a broad man, and the green striped vest he wore widened him like a watermelon. “Yah, yah,” he said, irritated “Is there any out there who thinks someone else should lead this group of ragamuffins west, then?”
    Mazy felt Jeremy move to stand, and her mouth dropped open in