Oregon Trail

The street lies churned to black mud beneath wagon wheels and boot heels. Merchants shout from plank porches. Teamsters curse at balky oxen. A blacksmith’s hammer rings against iron until the sound seems to live inside your teeth. Your wagon stands among others in the yard, raw wood smelling of sap and sawdust. Canvas lies folded nearby, pale as bone. Around you, families argue over flour sacks, rifles, rope, coffee, bacon, tools, medicine, and all the small things that suddenly feel as necessary as breath. Children chase each other between barrels while their mothers count coins with tight mouths. Beyond the last roofs, the prairie waits under a hard gray sky. Grass bends in the wind. Ruts from earlier wagons cut westward through the earth, dark and deep, like scars that have not healed. A trader with a sunburned face leans against a crate and watches you size up the goods. He names his prices with a smile too practiced to trust. The heavier outfit would ride slower and cost dearly, but it could keep your party alive when luck turns sour. The leaner outfit would leave money in your purse and get you rolling sooner, but every broken axle and empty barrel would bite harder. The oxe…