Georgie Hannigan pressed his face into the pillow to keep from laughing. His grandfather always snored in his sleep, but with the beans they’d had for supper, there were different sounds coming from Grandpa’s side of the room. The goose down in the pillow made Georgie sneeze loudly though, causing his grandpa to sit bolt upright in bed. In his surprise, he practically shouted a naughty word in Irish.


“Have mercy, boy! You’re enough to frighten an old man into an early grave!”


Now Georgie had to laugh. Sometimes his grandfather pretended to be angry, but Georgie knew him too well to be fooled. Not a mean bone in his body. And while his pa’s pa was nearly sixty, he was strong as an ox and not fearing of anyone or anything. “Sorry, Grandpa.”


“I trust all is well up there,” said a voice from the bottom of the loft ladder. Georgie’s ma heard every sound during the night. Always ready to protect those she loved, was Nelia Hannigan. Which was good, because Georgie’s father would sleep through the second coming of the Christ, Himself.


“We’re fine, lass. The wee lad’s stirring up trouble, is all.” In the dark, Georgie couldn’t see his grandfather’s face, but he knew he was smiling. The same silly grin he wore when Ma’s cookies mysteriously went missing from the baking pan.


“It wasn’t the wee lad I heard using words unfit for a tavern, now was it?” Ma was pretending to be stern, but Georgie knew she loved her husband’s father as much as she had her own.


“Forgive an old man’s foolishness, Nelia Rose.” Grandpa’s voice was thick with make-believe shame. “I’ll be washing me mouth out with soap, first thing in the morning.”
“Not enough soap in all the world…” Georgie’s mother muttered good naturedly. A minute later, his parent’s wooden bed creaked as his ma lay down beside his pa. At last, the little house was silent. Another long, exhausting day of farm work had ended and it was time to sleep.


But Georgie was too excited to sleep. “Do you think we’ll see buffalo, Grandpa? And Indians?”


“If the stories we hear from the Russell boy have anything to them, I expect we just might. I never knew Toby to stretch the truth…much. Unless there was a fish involved, of course.”


Georgie giggled. Toby Russell’s ma had waited nearly a year for a letter to come from Oregon Country. When it had finally arrived, she read it to the whole church. That had been last spring, but Georgie had never forgotten the pictures Toby had painted with his words. Herds of buffalo so big they turned the prairie furry for miles. Toby said that when the huge beasts stampeded, their hooves sounded dangerous and terrifying, like something out of the book of Revelation.


Then Toby wrote about the Indians they met on the trail. A few had stolen from the emigrants, even shooting arrows at their wagons, but most had been friendly, bringing food when the travelers had been desperate. Grandpa had said he supposed Indians were like all men, good and bad fighting for the upper hand in their souls.


Georgie didn’t know about that, but he was sure of one thing. He wouldn’t be afraid of stampeding buffalo or Indian arrows. In his imagination, he’d stood his ground against the thundering herds and wily savages a thousand times.


You see, Georgie was what his ma called ‘fanciful.’ He liked to make up stories in his mind, pictures and all. And of course, since the stories were playing themselves out inside Georgie’s head, it was only fair that he got to be the hero in them.


When Grandpa talked about the old country, about soldiers and swordfights, Georgie could almost feel the cold steel in his hands as he did fierce battle for his family’s honor. When his teacher, Mr. Tiblin, read stories about brave sea captains and treacherous pirates, Georgie nearly grew dizzy with the roll of the waves beneath his feet. Sometimes, he got so lost in make believe that his ma scolded him for not paying attention. Pa just rolled his eyes and grinned.


“He’s a boy, Nelia,” his pa would sooth when his ma started sputtering at him. “A boy with a bright mind. He needs more to occupy it than farm work and fishing.” Pa understood about stories. He’d grown up with Grandpa, and Grandpa could weave exciting tales out of tall grass and baling twine.


When town folk started talking about Oregon Country, Georgie started weaving his own tall grass tales. He saw himself sitting high on a wagon seat, expertly guiding pure white oxen through dangerous mountain passes. With one hand, he protected his ma from savage Indians and with the other, brought down enough buffalo to feed the whole wagon train.


It didn’t matter that Georgie would have to have at least four hands to accomplish such an incredible feat, or that he only sort of knew what an Indian or a buffalo might look like. It only mattered that later on, between bites of thick, delicious buffalo steak, the wagon master would tell pa what a brave son he had.


His ma, although still miffed about the foolish chances he had taken, would smile at him through the smoke of the campfire. His grandpa would whomp him on the back and say, “That’s me grandson, the bravest lad to ever cross the Great Divide!” Best of all, most important of all, would be the look on Pa’s face. He’d be so proud.


“When do you think we’ll leave, Grandpa?” Georgie kept his voice low so as not to wake his ma again. Nelia Hannigan was known to use her broom for more than sweeping floors.


Grandpa’s only answer was a snore and Georgie sighed. How could anyone sleep after hearing such exciting news? Maybe the most exciting news of their whole lives?