The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.13 Gopher Hole

May 15, 1857

When Billy died, at the age of fifteen, he had yet to feel the soft breast of a woman. He had yet to even see any. The closest he had come were the drawings his friend Paul made of naked ladies, which he claimed were based on actual women he had known. But Billy suspected Paul had also never seen a naked lady, so he distrusted the accuracy of Paul's pictures.

But in the young, lack of experience is only a stimulant to the imagination, and Billy's was strong. He spent many of his waking hours visualizing those breasts—soft in the palm of his hand, naked against his cheek, sweet and perfumed against his lips.

In fact, he was picturing that very thing, the moment that it happened.

It was nearing noon, on a particularly hot, cloudless day, just over a week out from Independence Rock. There had been some much-welcomed rain overnight, and although there were still spots of mud along the trail, everything was mostly dry, leaving the air humid and heavy.

Because of the heat, Carl Travers had asked Billy if he wanted to ride up front, rather than walk behind. But Billy had told his dad that he'd do just fine in the back. He could shift the old spinning wheel to the right, and nestle down next to the toolbox. It would be fine, as long as he kept the tailgate open, and let his legs hang out the back of the wagon. "Besides," he said, "you and mom need more room on the bench."

He saw they smiled at each other, knowing his real reason. His dad said, "Yeah, Billy, and the view from the back is even nicer than it is from up front." He was sure he saw his parents stifle a laugh, as they kept their eyes on the trail ahead.

It had been nine days since they had left Independence Rock. In that time, they had crossed the Continental Divide and entered the Great Basin. But that distinction was merely academic here, with no particular landmark to show the transition. In fact, the trail had improved, and the wagon train had used the opportunity to pick up the pace, hoping to make a few extra miles each day. To accommodate, the wagons had spread out a bit more than usual, so that each wouldn't be eating the dust of the wagon they followed. Unfortunately, that meant that Frances was a bit further behind, and her features were obscured by the billowing dust between the wagons.

The states of Utah and Wyoming were still many years in the future, but this nameless, wild country was not empty. It had been the home of indigenous peoples, prairie dogs and buffalo, since long before white settlers had dreamed up the concept of Manifest Destiny. So Billy passed the time watching the prairie dogs dart away from the wagons, and a circle of buzzards over something dead just to the south.

Billy never knew what caused the wagon to jump the way it did. But most likely, it was one of those damn gophers that had dug a tunnel under the trail. The constant pressure of the wagons may have just caused it to collapse, leaving a dangerous, but barely visible, dip in the dusty and muddy trail.

The wagon hit it going far faster than it should have.

One moment Billy was sitting on the tailgate of the wagon, watching the Sowersby's far behind, daydreaming of what it would feel like to slip his hand under Frances' cotton bodice, and then the next moment he was floating. Everything dropped out from under him for a fraction of a second, and he found himself airborne. But faster than he could register his flight, the rear gate was moving upward again, having encountered the other side of whatever rut it had fallen into. The impact of the gate on Billy's backside launched him into the air once again. He only had long enough to realize he was no longer in the wagon before he was hurtling to the ground. There was a sound like a breaking branch, and suddenly he was consumed with pain like he had never known. It exploded through his entire body, and in those first seconds, he had no idea where the pain originated.