The open free land, the bees buzzing past us as they gathered nectar from the flowers surrounding us, the sound of the water through the stream; this was the life we dreamed of. Marty stopped the wagon and we just sat and listened to the sounds around us. Birds were chirping their evening greeting, the water was flowing ever so gently down the stream, crickets were beginning their night song, and in the distance we could hear a coyote making his lonesome call. Yes, we were home.
We had traveled for months over broken trails, through snow and rain. Our oxen, the few that were still alive, were worn and weak. But here we were, home, home at last.
I could hardly wait to get settled, but I knew there were going to be long months ahead of us, months of building a cabin and finding food. We would have the little stream for water until winter came again, then maybe we could melt snow. Winters were said to be harsh here, and if the weather on the way here was any indication, we were in for a long hard year. But we were free, our own land away from the city and away from those who would control us. Here we could live our lives the way we wanted to.
Freedom, such a special word. Without it, we would die. With it, we could conquer nearly anything.