Crossing Purgatory Read Online Free PDF Page A

him.
    â€œGood evening,” said the man, “name’s Upperdine. Captain John Upperdine.”
    â€œThompson Grey.”
    â€œMight I ask your intentions, stopping here?” Captain Upperdine said.
    â€œWell, my immediate intentions are to finish my supper. I haven’t much thought beyond that.”
    Upperdine smiled and removed his hat and scratched his head.
    â€œI pilot a group of settlers. It is my job to think beyond your supper.” Upperdine’s tone conveyed neither anger nor threat, but he clearly expected a reply and he waited, hat in hand.
    â€œI appreciate your responsibility,” Thompson complied. “I am simply a traveler on the road.”
    â€œYou are heading into the territory?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œAfoot?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTo farm?”
    â€œYes.” Thompson said, without thinking. His answer startled him, caused a physical reaction, a cocking of the head, as if listening for a sound in the distance, unsure of what he had heard, and he amended his response.
    â€œWhat I meant was that perhaps I will farm. I have not considered it fully.”
    â€œTo trade, maybe?” Upperdine pressed.
    â€œI have no wish to trade.”
    â€œWell,” Upperdine said, “it’s none of my concern.” He pulled on his hat, adjusted the brim. “It’s just that land is about all there is in the western territories. Cheap. Some of it passable fertile. If it’s not land you’re seeking, nor trade, I fear you are dead ripe for disappointment.”
    Thompson had no answer. He looked off across the meadow toward the smaller cluster of wagons. The fires began to glow in the twilight.
    â€œI’ll not interrupt your supper any longer.” Upperdine started off and then turned. “Some advice?”
    â€œAny advice is welcome.”
    â€œI’ve crossed these grasslands more than once. This time of year, daytime heat builds up, sweat like you was breaking a fever. Nights, the chill seeps in right to the bones because your clothes ain’t dried out yet. I’d invest in a good wool shirt. Something that wicks. And maybe buckskin trousers.”
    â€œAppreciate your insight. Thank you.”
    Thompson ate his mush without tasting, added wood to the fire, watched the flames lick into the deepening night. He’d answered, yes. Yes, he’d farm. The realization stunned him. He had no heart for it, had no conscious intention of ever again putting plow to soil; but at the instant of his spontaneous response to Upperdine he’d voiced his destiny. He worked the land. That is what he was made for. He’d till and sow, reap and store, filling time between the present and that predestined moment in the future he would arrive at the gates of Hell. He’d farm, but not back East. He’d defiled that land and would not return.
    Next morning, Thompson walked into town and spent a good portion of one double eagle on clothing and what food he could carry, splurging on a small bag of coffee. He would be pleased to be rid of the clothes on his back. He’d picked up fleas or lice or both from the roadhouse mattress, and the itching had grown progressively more irksome.
    Returning to the woods, he bathed at the stream before it ran into the pasture. He stripped off his clothes and scrubbed his head and body with a scrap of lye soap he’d purchased in town. He inspected his arm wounds. His needlework had closed the gashes and allowed healing to begin, but was no work of art. The scars welted up, jagged and red. He discarded his old clothes after tearing a few rags from his shirt, left them in a heap beside the trail. He stepped into woolen underclothes and the buckskin trousers and began to pull on his new shirt, then stopped and hung it on a limb and returned to the stream. He wetted one of the rags and brought it to his face and soaked his whiskers. He used his