Sarah stood on the rough ground of a small rise, surveying the circle of prairie schooners and Conestogas that lay fifty feet east of her. Their once bright, canvas tops were muted and streaked with the rigors of a thousand miles of weather, river crossings, sun and dust. Many had bullet holes or patches where arrows from that horrible day back on Two Otters Creek had torn the rigging. The customary, small, cautious evening cook fires had been replaced by several large fires, thigh-high flames licking the cool clear air, clusters of pioneers excited to finally have arrived at Cherry Creek, trading stories, sharing plans, reviewing goals and saying goodbyes.
Sarah snuggled into her shawl, then laid a blanket on the ground and sat down, curling her legs under her until she was comfortable. She hadn’t wanted to be part of the jubilant crowd. She had had little time to herself since leaving Liverpool and had much to think about. I am not the same woman who had eagerly embarked the Edinburgh in Portsmouth Harbor five months before.
Tears came to her eyes and the expanse before her blurred. She blinked them away and looked to the west. The sun hung suspended behind dark, silhouetted mountains, the thin layers of softly glowing clouds laced with silver and bold strokes of fiery orange-red. Underlying them, a deepening purple sifted down from the highest peaks and curled around the foothills, spreading like a fog of color across the rolling plains. This land, the people; I had no idea how it would call to me. Transfixed by the sheer power of the scene, Sarah felt tiny and insignificant yet empowered at the same time. So many choices.
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