I
"I disagree with yon, Mr. President," Sam
Brentwood said. "I think you're dead
wrong."
Andrew Jackson averted his face so his visitor
wouldn't see his grin, and stared out of the window at the
thick coating of white snow on the neat lawn.
Winter had come early to Washington City, his last
full winter in the White House. He reflected
that, in the more than seven and a half years he had
spent as President of the United States, few people
had dared oppose
him
to his face. Sam Brentwood, of course, was
afraid of no one and always spoke his mind.
Composing himself, Jackson turned back to the man
he had summoned from the distant frontier town of
Independence, Missouri, and studied
him
in the unexpectedly strong sunlight that had streamed
into the President's office in the wake of the
snowstorm. Sam wore well, hi spite of the
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a skin that,
after years in the Rocky
Moun
tains, resembled old leather. Sam bad to be
close to forty now, the President thought, remembering
him as a seventeen-year-old scout back
hi the whiter of 1814's, when he had contributed so
much to Jackson's celebrated victory against the
British at the Battle of New Orleans.
Sam hadn't gained an ounce in all those years.
His life as a hunter, trapper and guide kept
him fit
"You're taking a short-sighted view, lad,"
Jackson said, speaking in the gentle tones he
reserved for old and trusted friends.
"The hell you say, sir!" Sam was still vehement.
"When I pulled into Independence with the season's
load of furs from the mountains and found your letter asking
me to come here in a hurry, I dropped everything.
If I'd known you were aiming to destroy the West
I'd have taken my time."
Jackson couldn't keep a straight face any
longer, and laughed heartily.
There was no malice in Sam's return smile, but
he shook his head. "I'm damned if I'm joking,
Mr. President. You can go for days at a time in the
Great Plains without seeing another soul. Just lite
you can. spend weeks alone in the Rockies. And
you're asking me to fill up the West with settlers."
"Not exactly. I'm trying to organize my last
major campaign before Martin Van Buren
takes over this job of mine in March. If I can
get the financial backing of men who have a vested
interest in the West-and I believe I can-I'm
asking you to lead a covered wagon train out to the
Oregon country on the Pacific.
Or at least to take it as far as you can, and get
somebody else as wagon master for the rest of the
trip."
"You know how the Indians are going to react when they
see hundreds of strangers coming into their territory in
wagons?" Sam said.
Andrew Jackson nodded. "I reckon. At least
some of them will be unhappy until they find out we
mean them no harm. That's why I need a man with your
experience in charge, Sam. You served with me against the
Choctaw in Tennessee and the Seminole in Florida
when they were ornery, and you helped work out the treaties
that were as fair to them as they were to us. So you understand
Indians."
"Maybe so, Mr. President." Sam
Brentwood could be stubborn when he made up his
mind. "But I hate to see the West get filled
up with people."
"So do I," Jackson replied quietly. "But
there's no choice. Immigrants are still coming
here from the Old World faster than the cities and towns
of the East can absorb them. We're the only viable
democracy in the world, and there's only one way we
can expand-by moving people westward."
Sam sighed, realizing that, like the President, he
had to accept the inevitability of national growth.
"I suppose so," he said grudgingly.
"There's still more behind all this," the President said, "and
I'll thank you to regard it as highly
confidential."
His tone as well as his words caused the lean
visitor to sit upright. "Yes, sir!" he said.
"The claim of the United States to the Oregon
territory is unclear and muddled." Jackson
spoke soberly now, his eyes clouded. "Great
Britain has a claim every bit as valid as ours.
So has Imperial Russia. They were the first nation
to occupy Oregon, but they pulled out when we and the
British began to contest it. Pulled out a little too
fast and too easily to suit me."
"What you're saying, Mr. President, is that this
country is in a battle with two of the world's most
powerful nations."
"It could be three of them if Spain should decide
to press her claims. But London and St.
Petersburg are worrying me, not Madrid.
We've fought the British twice in the past sixty
years, and we could whip the Redcoats again. However,
wars are a luxury a young nation really can't afford.
The British have the world's strongest navy, plenty of
manpower and all the money they need. The Russians
aren't as well off, but they're still rich and strong.
We need everything. Manpower. Factories. More
agricultural products. Meat on our young
bones." -
Sam nodded, seeing the problem for the first time from a new
perspective.
"Every American," Jackson said, "automatically
expects us to stretch from the Atlantic to the
Pacific."
"Well, sure." Sam himself thought in no other
terms.
"If the British or the Russians can establish
a solid foothold first," the President declared,
"that's the end of America's dreams. The British
can start moving from west to east, using Canada as a
base for their
operations. They can take the Rocky Mountains. They
can even move into the Great Plains, and we'll have
another major war on our hands if we
want that land. We could be pushed all the way back
to the Mississippi River."
Sam was starting to forget his objections to the settlement
of the West.
"We have one natural advantage over London
and St. Petersburg. We're closer. By thousands
of miles." Jackson was emphatic. "It will be
difficult for the British to occupy the Pacific
Northwest, and even harder for the Russians. I'm
not saying we can just walk in. But we can send our people
as settlers, first by the hundreds and then by the thousands.
Once they've established homesteads and built
towns and roads, British and Russian claims
won't amount to a pot of burned beans. If
America really intends to fulfill her destiny and
become a great nation, our citizens have got to go
into Oregon. There's no two ways about it."
A handful of mountain men might prefer isolation,
Sam realized, but the needs of the country as a whole
were paramount
"Much as we need settlers in Oregon," the
President continued, "we're not asking them for
favors. I'm told that not even Tennessee and
Kentucky have land that rich, forests as full of game
or rivers as crammed with fish."
"So I hear, sir."
The President stared at his visitor in
ill-concealed dismay. "You just hear, Sam? You
don't actually know Oregon?"
"No, sir. I've done no traveling the other
side of the continental divide. But I won't let
you down, Mr. President."
"That's good to hear. How well do you know the town of
Independence?"
"There isn't all that much to know, sir. It has a
general store and a couple of taverns."
"That's going to change. The settlers bound for
Oregon will need a supply base, and we aim
to build up Independence, Would you be willing to act
as wagon- master of the first train as far as
Independence, and then stay there to organize a depot
for later trains?"
"I'll do anything you want, Mr. President."
"Thank you. Now, once I find a guide who'll
take the first band of settlers from Independence to the
Pacific, I'll be ready to start talking to the
financiers."
"I have your man," Sam Brentwood said.
Jackson leaned forward in his chair.
"Mike Holt is my friend. Out in the
Rockies he's known as Whip because he can do things
with a bullwhip as a weapon that you wouldn't believe.
He's still in his twenties, at least ten years younger
than I am, but he's been a hunter and trapper
for a long time. He knows the Great Plains and the
Rockies as well as I do, and he's friendlier with the
Indian tribes out there. And he's gone through the
Oregon territory at least twice."
"Do you suppose he'd be willing to replace you at
Independence?"
"I think he'd do it for me. And I know he'd
ride a log down the Colorado River rapids
if you asked him to do it. You're his idol."
"That's comforting to hear, even if I question his judgment,"
Jackson said. "Where can he be reached?"
"If he hasn't already brought his furs down from
the mountains to Independence, hell be arriving there
mighty soon. Just looking out these windows tells you
the whole country is going to have an early winter, and
Whip Holt is no more inclined to freeze to death up
in the mountains than I am."
"Send for him, Sam. Ten him I want to see
him, and the Government will pay his expenses. But put
no details in writing. We can't take any
chances if we hope to beat the British and the
Russians to the punch."
Sam nodded.
Suddenly the President of the United States
sighed. I'll tell you another secret, Sam,"
he said, looking forlorn. "When I leave office in
another three months I'll go back to my
property outside Nashville and rusticate.
Meanwhile you'll be on the road with a wagon train,
you and this fellow Whip Holt, if he works out as you
think he will. You'll be having all the fun. And between
us, Sam, I envy the living daylights out of you!"
"I'm not a vixen, I'm not a witch and I'm not
an overbearing woman!" Claudia Humphries
spoke quietly, as befitted a New England
lady of the 1830's, but her voice carried far beyond
the confines of the Long Island farmhouse kitchen.
"I'm a former schoolteacher, I have the misfortune
to be a widow, and I refuse to be buried in a
premature grave beside my husband or to let other
people manage my life for me! And that's final."
As she marched up and down her brother-in-law's
kitchen, her kohl-rimmed green eyes alight and
her shoulder-length blonde hair tousled, not even
her voluminous silk dress and petticoats could
totally conceal
the lithe figure of a twenty-sevenyear-old
woman in radiant good health. She not only meant
every word, but seemed to be speaking the truth.
Claudia's relatives realized that she was
extraordinary, just as her friends and neighbors in
New Haven claimed. There was no one else in the
world quite like her. Daughter of a widower, she had reared
herself and her little sister Cathy before making the mistake
of marrying a man who not only had her father's
servile temperament, but also suffered from an
appetite for liquor.
In Claudia's opinion there were no contradictions
in her nature. Intelligent, hard-driving and
sensible, she had been horrified when her late
husband accused her, in a drunken stupor, of
wanting to be the man of the family. Untrue! She
was a woman, first, last and always, and proud of it
Since that day, she'd gone out of her way
to emphasize her femininity, using cosmetics
liberally and wearing clothes that most New England
ladies considered much too revealing. Claudia's
reaction to their criticism was characteristically blunt:
If her detractors had her charms they wouldn't
hide them!
She considered herself self-sufficient Having
managed Papa's affairs for a long time, she had
taken charge of her husband's business when he himself
proved incompetent It was Claudia's private
conviction, zealously guarded, that men were little better
than bumblers, inferior beings all.
Occasionally she revealed her innermost attitudes
without realizing it. A New Haven physician,
who had known her for a long time, tried to put it in a
nutshell:
"What Claudia needs is a man who can handle
her. But I doubt if the good Lord ever created a
man that strong, that wise and that patient"
Certainly her relatives couldn't restrain her.
Her younger sister, Cathy van Ayl, who was
twenty-one and resembled her, was the mistress of her
own home, at least theoretically, but she knew
better than to reply. Long familiar with
Claudia's temper, she could only shudder.
Claudia pointed a slender finger at her
middle-aged brother-in-law, Otto van Ayl.
"You're neither my father nor my husband, so I
won't permit you to dictate what I do."
Otto sighed. Married to Cathy for four years,
trying In vain to earn a decent profit from his farm
near Montauk Point on the eastern tip
of Long Island, he had enough trouble trying to handle a
spirited wife young enough to be his daughter. Attempting
to control Cathy's fiery, sophisticated sister
also, was way beyond his capacity.
"You can sell this place and take Cathy anywhere you
please. Kansas City, the Ohio Valley,
even the wilds of Illinois for all I care. But
I'm not going with yon!"
Otto rubbed a hand across his balding head. He'd
never known anyone like her. "I didn't ask Gil
Humphries to make me the executor of his will or
to put me in charge of his wife's business, and for the
past couple of years, ever since he died so
suddenly, I've been sorry he did. But the law
is the law and I have no choice."
"Indeed you do," Claudia was swift to respond.
"You can sell your farm, if that's what you want, and
go west. Settle there, if that's your fancy. But
allow me to manage my own property. My house
in New Haven is snug, my woolen mill earns
me enough to pay my bills, and I'm content"
Otto refrained from pouring himself a drink of
brandywine from the decanter on the shelf, and helped
himself instead to more tea. "You're intelligent," he
said, "for a woman. You must have the brains
to understand that the law won't let you keep either the mill
or the house under your own control. They've got to be
supervised for you by a trustee who's a man."
Claudia glared at him. "I wonder what Mrs.
Thomas Jefferson thought when her husband neglected
to write that all women are created equal, too."
Claudia began to pace again, her hips swaying
slightly, neither knowing nor caring that she was the
epitome of outraged femininity. "Be sensible,
Otto. You know very well that for all practical
purposes I've been in charge of the mill and the
house. I was doing feat long before Gil died."
Otto disliked being crossed. "You're the one who's
got to be sensible," he said. "Suppose Cathy and
I find us a new property a thousand miles from
here. No court of law is going to believe I could
keep an eye on what you're doing, not from that distance.
And the judge would be right. If our system is wrong,
change the system." He added, dryly. "But till
you do, women aren't allowed to direct their own
business affairs, and that's that!"
Otto smiled with a satisfied air. How smug he
looks, thought Cathy, like always when he made a
conclusive
point. That was one of the problems of being married
to Otto van Ayl: he was so seldom wrong.
All the same, he didn't seem much like a
husband; he reminded her of Papa, whose friend he had
been. She couldn't feel close to him. They hadn't
been intimate since their wedding night, which had been
a disaster for both of them. She knew such thoughts were
disloyal, however, so she put them out of her mind. In
the present instance she happened to agree with him, although
she wouldn't dare admit such a thing to Claudia.
There was no telling what her sister might do if she
really lost her temper.
Claudia was fighting for self-control and gradually
winning the battle. She poured herself a cup of tea
and sipped it before she spoke again. "Rather than go off
into some godforsaken wilderness," she said, "I'd
prefer to marry again. There must be some man I could
make an arrangement with."
Cathy was so shocked she couldn't remain silent.
"Claudia! You wouldn't marry a fortune-hunter."
Her sister's shapely shoulders rose and fell.
"I'm not likely to tempt a fortune-hunter.
I'm hardly all that rich."
"She isn't marrying anybody," Otto said.
"Because she'd need my permission as the head of the
family, and I'm not going to give it.
Claudia, you're forcing me to act like the villain in
that foolish play we saw in New York last
month. And I don't like it."
"Well, Otto, you're trying to force me to leave
my home for a wretched life in the wilderness, and I
don't like it either," Claudia said, glaring at him
defiantly. "I'm aware of your predicament here,
Otto, and I
sympathize with it. I know the soil on your farm is
poor, and salt air isn't good for your crops. You
want to sell out and buy a big piece of land where the
soil is rich. More power to you-and to Cathy. But it
isn't fair to insist that I join you."
"I'd be much happier without your nagging, I'm
sure," Otto said drily. "But I've got
to earn my fee as your husband's executor."
Cathy dared to intervene again. "How do you know you
wouldn't like it out west, Claudia? You've never been
there."
"It's different for you, dear," Claudia replied
with asperity. "You were young when you and Otto got
married, and you've lived on this isolated farm ever
since. But I'm accustomed to the finer things of life,
and a little comfort. I enjoy the lectures at Yale
College and the theater in New York. I
certainly don't look forward to the prospect of
hunting for elk or moose-or whatever wild beasts
there may be in the Ohio Valley."
Otto chuckled. "You'll have to go on to the real
wilderness, all the way to the Rocky Mountains, before
you'll find elk and moose."
Claudia tried to cover up her ignorance. "You
know very well what I mean. It's become the
fashion to be uncouth these past seven and a half
years, thanks, no doubt, to President
Jackson. But, I can tell you, Andrew
Jackson isn't
my
version of the ideal President, and I'll be very
pleased when Martin Van Buren takes office.
He's a gentleman."
"God help this country," Otto said, "if women
are ever given the right to vote."
Cathy had to laugh. Claudia smiled, too, but
her
green eyes were cold as the winter waters of the
Atlantic.
"Mock me if it gives you pleasure,"
Claudia said, "but I make you a solemn
promise. If you force me to pull up my
roots and make a ridiculous journey to some
place where no one else lives, if you insist that
I live in a cabin like those of the poor Scottish
immigrants in Tennessee, if I'm forced to eat
wild onions and tough boar meat-wen, Otto dear,
I won't be alone in my misery."
The President was speaking, and when Andrew
Jackson raised his voice people listened. When he
pounded the table with his fist they paid attention to every word.
It was a cold morning in January 1837, and there
was no other sound in the conference room of the White
House except the crackling of the wood fire in the
hearth. It didn't matter that the old man was leaving
office hi another two months and retiring to his
Tennessee farm. His was still the dominant voice in
America.
Even his chosen successor, the rotund
President-elect Martin Van Buren, was
maintaining a respectful silence. So were the bankers
from Philadelphia, New York and Boston, men
who had been feuding for years with Old Hickory but
who had responded quickly when he summoned them to this
meeting. Grouped together at one end of the long table were
three men who already knew what the President
wanted:
John Jacob Astor, reputedly the wealthiest
man in America. He had made a fortune in fur
trading in
the Pacific Northwest, and it was said that he
controlled large quantities of New York real
estate. Like Jackson he was elderly. And although
he, too, could pound a table when necessary, he was
quiet-at least for the moment
General William H. Ashley, Astor's
arch-rival as a fur trader and millionaire and,
like Jackson an old Indian fighter. Both men
had made fortunes in the Oregon country, and
ordinarily they took great pains to avoid each
other. Now, however, they were united in a common
enterprise.
Jedediah S. Smith, Ashley's associate,
looked somewhat out of place in this august gathering, and
doubly uncomfortable in his expensive clothes.
Smith was the only man present who actually knew
the Oregon country at first-hand, having made a
number of explorations there. He disliked all
meetings, but the President had demanded that he
attend this session, so he came.
"Gentlemen," Jackson said, "the future growth
of the United States is in jeopardy right
now, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. Make
no mistake about it I've called you here because something
has to be done. We can't wait any longer to act"
No one moved a muscle.
"In the past few years," the President continued,
"we've persuaded Spain to give up her claims
to the Oregon country. We've also signed a
treaty with Imperial Russia, who has pulled out
of the territory. But under the terms of the peace treaty
we made with Great Britain at the end of the War of
1812, we and
the British control Oregon jointly." His
gnarled fist thumped the table again.
"Joint control is no control.
Either that country becomes part of the United States,
or the British will annex it and incorporate it
into Canada. Those are the two alternatives."
Pausing for effect, he looked in turn at each
man present "I aim to make the Oregon country
a part of the United States."
His listeners applauded spontaneously.
Jackson gestured for silence. "We can't do it with
troops, because the territory is too far from our
population centers. We can't do it through diplomacy
at this point, because the British won't listen
to us any more than well listen to them. There's only
one way we can gain a hold out there and keep it: to have
settlers take actual possession of the
territory, establish their homesteads and live
there."
"Can't the Congress pass a bill to encourage
homesteaders, Mr. President?" A banker
made bold to ask.
Old Hickory glared at him. "That's exactly
what we cannot do. We'd be violating our treaty with the
British, and none of us wants another war with them.
The United States Government is obliged to stay
out of this situation-officially, that is. But there's nothing
to prevent private citizens from banding together and sending
homesteaders to the West. Mr. Astor, tell them the
plan we've concocted."
John Jacob Astor leaned forward in his chair.
"We propose to form a company for the purpose of
settling the Oregon country. We'll advertise
in newspapers all the way from here to the
Mississippi, telling people
there's rich, free land available to them. Then well
send out a covered-wagon train, the first of many, and
give financial assistance to those who need it."
One of the Bostonians was puzzled. "I
don't understand what you mean by a covered-wagon
train." President Jackson grinned.
"It's a new way of traveling," General
Ashley explained. "In the limited trade the
Spaniards allow us on the Santa Fe Trail,
we've been sending goods by covered wagon. That is,
wagons with canvas stretched over them and held above
the wagon surface by big hoops of wood. If
such wagons can protect merchandise they're even
better for people." "How many people could go on one of these
trains?" "As many as want to," Astor said. "And
how long would the journey take?" another banker
wanted to know. Everyone looked at ledediah Smith.
"A
minimum
of two years," he said slowly. "Maybe as long
as three. It depends on the weather, the mountains and the
Indians."
"Mr. President," a New Yorker said, "we
gather you're asking us to invest in this program."
"I'm asking you to invest in the future of the United
States."
Astor felt compelled to soften the curt answer.
"It'll take time for any investment to pay off. But
real estate in the Oregon country will be
worth as much- eventually-as the fur trade has been
for Bill Ashley and me."
Aster's words struck Jackson on a raw nerve.
The antagonism he felt for the wealthy Astor
flared anew.
"I'll let you people worry about your profits," he
said harshly. "My only concern is the natural
expansion of this country across the continent born the
Atlantic to the Pacific. Profits be
damned""
John Jacob Astor may have been the only man
in the room who wasn't afraid of Old
Hickory. "Unless investors can be assured of
making a reasonable profit," he said coolly,
"you'd better send the troops out there now, Mr.
President That's the only other way you'll take
the Oregon country. And without actual
settlers-families who'll take the land,
cultivate it and hold it-your troops win never
succeed. All you'll do is drag us into another
expensive war with Great Britain."
The President's eyes blazed-always a danger
sign, but he remained civil. "If I'd wanted
to send troops to the Pacific," he said, "I
wouldn't have called you here, Astor. Or any
of you. I know what's needed to take and hold land, and
I don't require lessons from fur traders and
bankers. I know you're here because you want to make
money. What Fm trying to tell you is that there's a
damn sight more than money at stake. What we
accomplish or fail to accomplish will have a direct
effect on the future of the United States for
hundreds of years to come. I hope that even you
businessmen have the vision to see it!"
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
The discreet Martin Van Bnren felt compelled
to enter the conversation, even though he had long deferred
to Jackson. "What the President is saying,
gentlemen," he declared smoothly, "is that we can
expect serious trouble over this venture."
"What kind of trouble?" a Philadelphia!!
inquired.
"Surely you don't expect the British to accept
our settlement of the Oregon country without a
murmur," the President-elect said. "The
British are proud. They aim to be the most powerful
nation in the world. They know the Oregon land is rich.
They also appreciate the value of the fur trade,
the magnificent timber and the superb fishing."
"Are you suggesting," a New Yorker
asked, "that London will send a military expedition
all the way to Oregon?"
Jackson's snort indicated his disgust.
Van Buren hastened to reply before Old Hickory
exploded. "The British don't want a direct
challenge any more than we do. They'll try to thwart
us in some way, you can be sure, but we don't know how
they'll go about it."
"Then the possibility exists that a war with Britain
could develop."
"Certainly," Jackson said, "even though neither
side wants it. The stakes are high."
"We may be in for problems with Imperial
Russia, too," Van Buren added. "They
signed the treaty I negotiated as Secretary of
State only because we exerted great pressure on
them. Czar Nicholas is a proud man comand you can
depend on it that he wants to recover Oregon.
He may be something of a bumbler as well as a
despot, but he's got some able advisers. And I
don't see St. Petersburg giving up all that
territory without another struggle."
"What I don't understand," the Bostonian said,
"is why so many people should covet that wilderness."
President Jackson's temper had reached
the boiling point again. "Maybe one of you Westerners
will explain to this gentleman from the East-who seems
to know nothing except how to balance his infernal
ledgers!"
Jedediah Smith was quick to respond. "I've never
seen land so fertile anywhere else, not even in the
black- earth farmlands of Illinois." He spoke
with sudden passion. "And the climate is perfect all
year "round. If there's ever been a land of milk and
honey anywhere on earth, it's the Oregon country."
Jackson took charge of the meeting again. "We
don't aim to let parties of innocents wander out across
the plains, the deserts and the mountains by themselves. That would
be foolish. They'll be escorted every inch of the way."
Van Buren spoke again. "The whole country will be
watching. We realize that And if this first group
succeeds, others win follow-in large numbers.
If it fails, we may as well give up our
claims to the Oregon country and let the British
take the whole territory."
"We see this journey taking place in two
stages," Jackson explained. "First, a wagon
tram will start out from the East, and we hope it will
attract people along the way, thanks to newspaper
advertising. In addition, we aim to set up
a takeoff depot at Independence, Missouri.
And from there the pioneers will go into the wilderness."
A Philadelphia banker cleared his throat.
"Isn't there great risk involved, Mr.
President?"
"Hell, yes." Jackson looked at him
coldly. "When I migrated from South Carolina
to Tennessee, I walked
behind my donkey cart all the way. I fought
rattlesnakes, Indians and some of the meanest
critters this side of Hades, but I'm none the
worse for it Besides, we have good men to act as
escorts. One of my own lads, who served under me
at the Battle of New Orleans, has agreed
to act as the train commander as far as Independence. I
can vouch for Sam Brentwood. Hell stay on at
Independence and run the depot there. And he's
recruited a mountain man to take charge of the party the
rest of the way."
"We traveled through the Rocky Mountains with Mike
Holt," Smith said. "We've fought the Indians
side by side. And a few years ago we had one
hell of a fight with the Russians. One winter we
damn near starved together. Mike Holt is a good
man." Anyone who knew Smith realized
he could offer no higher praise.
The President glanced at John Jacob
Astor, who nodded.
"I believe in this program," Astor said, "and
Fm convinced it'll make money for everyone concerned.
I also believe it will win the Oregon country for
America. I'm pledging an initial investment of
four hundred thousand dollars."
The sum was so large the bankers were stunned.
"I'm putting in a quarter of a million,"
General Ashley added before they could recover from their
first shock.
"I'm not that rich," Jedediah Smith said, "but
Tm pledging one hundred thousand dollars. The
West has been good to us, and I know this is one
investment I won't regret"
One by one the other bankers offered their pledges,
too. Some were reluctant, others showed a genuine
interest to the project and still others were content merely
to follow the lead of men as shrewd as Astor and
Ashley.
Andrew Jackson had no intention of allowing even
one to escape. He stared at each banker in turn
until a commitment was made. By the time the meeting
ended the new company had received promises of
almost two million dollars in capitalization.
Approximately half of this sum, it was
explained, would be used to build the depot in the little
village of Independence, and to stock it with the
supplies and provisions the travelers would need on
their long journey across the wilderness.
When the meeting ended and the visitors departed, Martin
Van Buren remained. "You brought it off, Mr.
President, just as you said you would," he said with a
smile.
"This is my final legacy to you, Martin-and to the
American people," Jackson said. "The next step will
be for folks to respond to the advertising. Then it'll
be up to Sam Brentwood, and this young Holt fellow
after him, to lead those brave pioneers to the promised
land."
Free, Rich
LAND!
in the
Oregon Country
New Homesteads for all!
Join the Wagon Train! Watch this space for
Scheduled
Arrival in Your Town
Cash Loans Vp to $250 for
Horses, Equipment and Supplies
Will be Made to All Qualified
Applicants!
Join the Great
Adventure
on
WAGONS WEST! II
The arthritic pains in Sam Brentwood's hip were
intense as he limped to a table in a dark corner of the
New York waterfront tavern, but he ignored
them. A man learned to live with pain, and at the age
of thirty- nine Sam was no stranger to discomfort.
With his graying hair and lined face, he looked much
older than his years. The bullet wound he had
suffered at New Orleans had contributed to that, and
so had the scars he still bore after his torture by the
Kiowa tribe.
At first glance Sam looked like a city dweller, in
his dark broadcloth suit, half-boots and white
shirt and stock. But his hands were those of a man who had
known hard physical labor. His skin was that of a
man who had lived most of '? life out of doors
and, most of all, his eyes told their own story.
Clear and gray, they were the eyes of a fighter, a
man who had tasted life to the full, a man
of many experiences who
had been forced by necessity to pass judgment on his
fellow humans in order to survive.
So a stranger who studied him would take him for a
frontier dweller, not realizing that he had been
born in this part of the country. But his past was very
private. Not even his few close friends knew all
of it.
Just before the beginning of the nineteenth century, when he
had been a small boy, his mother bad deserted his father
and run away with another man, never again to be seen
by her husband or son. So Pa had taken Sam out
west, and he had grown to manhood in the wilds near
the Mississippi River.
Only since he had come east at President
Jackson's request had Sam thought about those days,
buried in his memory almost four decades in the
past. After all, he bad been standing on his own
self-reliant feet for a long time. But, he
realized, many of his attitudes grew out of those dark
days of early childhood.
For example, he hated "ladies," particularly
those who put on airs and wore fancy clothes.
He found them no better than the whores who, from time
to time, took care of his physical needs.
On the other hand, he went out of his way to be
polite to ordinary women, particularly cooks,
chambermaids and others who had to earn their living. Not
that he'd ever marry one. No woman would ever hurt
him the way his Pa had been hurt Actually, just being
in the East now made Sam uneasy, although he could
face an entire herd of stampeding buffalo without
flinching.
The Eastern Seaboard was too civilized now,
boasting theaters and
inna,
elegant dining places and shops
that might rival the best that London and Paris could
offer. But Sam made no apology for the curved,
bone- handled knife he carried in his belt. He was
one of Andy Jackson's cubs, a veteran of more
battles than he cared to remember, and New
York footpads who regarded him as an easy
mark because of his limp hastily changed their minds when
they drew closer to him.
The barmaid took it for granted that he wanted
whiskey, and stayed out of his reach because she assumed he
would try to paw her. Sam surprised her on both
counts, treating her with elaborate courtesy as he
ordered a small mug of non-alcoholic
ginger beer. When he smiled his thanks he looked
far younger than his years.
Everyone in this rough establishment-sailors and dock
workers alike-gaped at the younger man still in his
twenties who arrived to join Sam Brentwood. The
heavily tanned Mike Holt was almost painfully
thin and towered above everyone else in the tavern. He
wore his usual soiled buckskins, disdaining the
clothes that New Yorkers regarded as proper, and
when he removed his broadbrimmed hat he revealed
a shock of pale, blond hail. What caused the
most stir, however, was the coiled bullwhip looped
casually around his belt. It seemed a natural part
of him, like the moccasins that were molded to his feet
Holt slid into a chair opposite Sam, moving
with effortless ease. Then he lived up to the
barmaid's expectations by slapping her lightly across
the buttocks as he ordered a glass of whiskey.
"You're late, Whip," Sam Brentwood said.
Whip Holt had the grace to flush beneath his tan.
"I can find my way through a blizzard in the
Rockies," he said, "but I get lost in this town.
I'm blamed if I know why I had to come here hi the
first place."
Sam sipped his ginger beer. "You can head
west again in a few weeks," he said with a grin, then
sobered. "Andy Jackson wanted you to join me for a
spell at the start of this expedition, and when General
Jackson gives an order it's got to be
obeyed."
Whip was well aware of his friend's opinion of the great
Andrew Jackson, and wanted no dispute. Sam was
the one man he knew who could beat him in a fist-
fight, wrestling match or free-for-all.
The barmaid saved him the need for a reply by bringing his
drink and favoring him with the broad smile that most
women bestowed on him, sooner or later. Whip
raised his glass to his companion, then downed its
contents in a gulp.
"Yon and Jed Smith got me into this fix," he
said, "but I reserve the right to quit after I see how
you make out between here and Independence."
"I can't say I look forward to acting as a
nursemaid to misfits, dirt farmers and God
only knows what else well dredge up on this
trip. I wasn't cut out for the life of-a nanny.
But I reckon the settlement of the Oregon country
will be worth a few headaches," Sam said.
Whip brooded in silence. "It's the most beautiful
land there is. Mountains of fir and spruce and
pine. Wild onions and berries waiting to be
picked. So many salmon in the Columbia River
you can almost scoop them out with your bare hands. There's
no call there
for "dirt farmers, or for towns that will be big and
ugly as this one is, either. Oregon ought to be left
the way it is."
"That's not what Andy Jackson wants," Sam
said, and so the issue was settled. "We'll find us
an inn where we can stay overnight, and tomorrow well go out
to Long Island and start to work. There's a farmer out there
by the name of Van Ayl-the first to answer Mr.
Astor's advertisement We'll show him how to fix
up a covered wagon nice and cozy. And soon as
he's ready we'll start our caravan on its
way."
Whip sighed. "I wish I was hunting elk in the
Ute Mountains."
"You'll be back there soon enough-which is more than
I'll ever do again with my ailing hip."
Whip was abashed. "Sorry, Sam. I didn't
mean to-was
"No harm done, boy. Even a stupid old
stallion knows when his time to turn out to pasture has
come. I told Andy Jackson that this is my
last job before I find me a quiet place to live
out my days." Sam reached into a fat purse he'd
been given earlier in the day at John Jacob
Astor's office, selected a gold coin and
placed it on the table.
He and Whip were unaccustomed to city ways, and neither
realized, as they waited for their change, the stir that the
purse and gold coin created. Significant
looks were exchanged, silent signals were given and
when the pair left the tavern and moved out into the
alleyway beyond, they were followed by a half- dozen
burly men who quickly surrounded them.
The leader planted himself hi front of Sam,
blocking his path. "Ill take that purse you're
carrying," he said. "Hand it over, or you'll limp
on both legs."
Sam's response was rapid and violent. His fist
lashed out with great force, smashing the robber full in the
face, and the man went down.
Another man drew a pistol from beneath his cloak.
Before he could use it, however, Sam was wielding his
knife with unerring expertise, slashing his
assailant across the hand.
The man howled in agony and dropped his pistol.
In the meantime Mike Holt demonstrated
how he had earned his nickname. He uncoiled his
bullwhip quickly. It cracked only once-and a
third robber screamed in pain. On the second
crack, another man dropped his pistol and ran, a
red welt forming across his face.
The remaining two men beat a hasty retreat down the
alley.
The entire encounter had lasted barely thirty
seconds.
Sliding his knife into its sheath, Sam calmly
nudged the body of the unconscious gang leader with his
toe. "Reckon we ought to find us an
inn
in a better neighborhood for the night," he said,
hobbling along at Whip Holt's side. "I'm a
mite tired out this evening, and I don't want my
sleep disturbed by rowdies."
II
A discreet sign attached to the door of the building
facing St. James Park in London identified
the premises as the offices of the Empire Trading
Company Limited. It was the only building in the
neighborhood that wasn't a private dwelling.
On the ground floor, clerks worked quietly at
ledgers, dipping their quill pens into ink
jars, filling page after page with neat rows of
figures. Subordinate executives were housed
on the second floor.
Only hi the large room on the third floor,
overlooking the park where a cold winter rain was
falling, were there hints that the Empire Trading
Company might be other than what it appeared to be
on the surface. A portrait of England's
monarch, William IV, hung in solitary
splendor on one wall, near a glass case
containing a pair of dueling pistols and several
swords.
To anyone in the know, the presence behind the desk of
Sir Edwin Knowlton was a certain indication
that this establishment was actually a secret branch of
His Majesty's Service. A quarter of a century
earlier, when he'd been young, Sir Edwin had
insured the loyalty of Canada to the Crown during
the War of 1812. Now white-haired and austere,
he had just returned from lunch at his nearby club.
Having consumed a dozen oysters, broiled
partridge, saddle of lamb and a bottle of
excellent claret, he was in an amiable mood. As
subordinates who saw him regularly knew
well, however, Sir Edwin's temper could
flare up at any moment
But the younger man who sat opposite
hi*
showed no sign of discomfort. Solidly built and in
his thirties, Henry St. Clair had spent a
full decade in Sir Edwin's employ, and had
earned his spurs. They were colleagues, not master and
servant, and St. Clair didn't even bother
to ask permission before lighting a West Indian
segaro.
Sir Edwin disliked the aroma of burning tobacco, but
was inclined to humor one of his more accomplished
operatives. "I trust you've enjoyed your leave?"
"Very much, Sir Edwin. I've spent most of it right
here in London, catching up on the theater and
civilized eating places. I felt I owed it
to myself, after spending two years in the jungles of
Latin America."
"You're ready for a new assignment, I hope."
"Of course, sir."
"I regret you'll see no theater for a long time
to come, and you'll have to toughen your palate."
St. Clair shrugged. Experience had taught him that
rain always follows sunshine.
"What do you know about the Oregon
territory?"
"Nothing, Sir Edwin-except that we and the Yanks
are parties to an awkward joint-occupation arrangement
there."
"Precisely. The problem is that no one is
actually occupying most of the country. A tiny band of
Americans belonging to some religious group has
established a little settlement somewhere or other in the
wilderness, and we have a small garrison at Fort
Vancouver. That's the extent of the occupation on the part
of both nations."
"Are we going to beat them to it?"
"No, Henry. I was in favor of trying to, but the
Colonial Office doesn't think the idea is
feasible. Now that the Americans are sending a large,
well-financed wagon train out there, we're forced
to take a different disapproach." Sir Edwin
smiled at his visitor. "You'll join that train and
use every means at your disposal to disrupt it."
St. Qair whistled. "Sabotage is nasty
business."
"Indeed. You'll be free to carry out the details as
you see fit. Let me know by tomorrow what you'll need in
the way of funds, and be prepared to sail for
Plymouth the disfollowing day."
"So soon?"
"The wagon train is already being formed. And ..."
Sir Edwin said, speaking slowly, "I regret
to say that you won't be working alone. I've been
notified by the Imperial Russian Legation that
St. Petersburg is also assigning an agent to work
toward the same end."
St. Clair groaned. "The bloody
Cheka
is so inefficient and sloppy!"
"I've never been fond of the Russian secret
police
myself," Sir Edwin said, "but I scarcely need
to remind you that Czar Nicholas is His Majesty's
ally."
"How closely must I cooperate with this
Cheka
idiot?"
"Just enough to justify the glowing reports I shall send to the
Prime Minister and Foreign Office. If the
Russians offer you any real help in crippling the
wagon train, you'll want to accept it.
Ultimately, however, you'll want to be rid of the
Cheka
agent. We're not in business to advance the
cause of the Czar."
Still Clair smiled, but his eyes remained hard.
"It won't be the first time we've played that game.
Who is the Russian representative, sir, and
where do we meet?"
"Don't ask too much of St. Petersburg."
Sir Edwin's smile was wry. "I've been given
no details. Presumably you and their agent will have
to locate each other on the wagon train."
"It's going to be difficult enough to carry out this mission
without stumbling over some bumbling idiot of a
Russian," St. Clair said. "After I've
finished this job I hope you'll consider me for a
desk assignment right here at headquarters. Ten
years of working abroad is a long time."
"Do what's expected of you," Sir Edwin said, "and
prevent that wagon train from reaching Oregon. If
you succeed, you can plan on spending the rest of your
career right here."
The charge
d'affaires
of the Imperial Russian Legation in Washington
City looked out of his window at the wet, muddy
road that the Americans called a street,
and wondered when it might be paved with
cobblestones. The dignity of the Legation demanded a
pavement, but
so
far the State Department had blandly ignored his
requests. "General Valichevsky expects us
to perform miracles," he said to his companion,
referring to the problem in Oregon. "But we are
diplomats here, my dear Tarnoff, not
magicians."
Baron Tarnoff, a high-ranking
Cheka
official who had come to the United States on a
special mission, was unmoved. "The Czar himself
has taken an interest," be said. "He signed the
treaty when he was new to the throne, and he feels the
Americans and British have taken unfair
advantage of his lack of experience. He would very
much like to see the Oregon territory under our
sovereignty."
"I share that wish, as does the Minister," the charge
d'affaires
said. "But we have no agents on our staff, and we
find it difficult to find an experienced operative
on such short notice."
"Four members of the Imperial household
staff who have disappointed His Majesty in recent
months have been sent to Siberia," Baron Tarnoff
said.
The
charge's
hand shook slightly as he picked up a sheaf of
documents from his desk. "The best I can offer you is
the young woman who came to see us three days
ago-provided she can be persuaded to accept. And
provided General Valichevsky keeps in mind that
she is a rank amateur."
The
Cheka
representative snapped his fingers. "The pertinent
details, please."
"Her name is Antoinette Melichev, born
twenty- three years ago to Ivan Melichev, a
court jeweler to the
late Czar Alexander. Melichev and his wife,
Olga, continue to live in St. Petersburg, where
he's a commercial jeweler in a shop near the
Summer Palace. The girl was sent to America as
a small child, and moved with her aunt and uncle to the
frontier in the West, where she grew up. She now
calls herself Tonie Mell."
Baron Tarnoff's gesture was impatient.
The charge
spoke more rapidly. "A year ago I received a
letter from the girl, saying her parents had applied
repeatedly for visas to join her here, but had received
no reply from the Ministry. She inquired whether she
could hasten the procedure. I sent a letter to St.
Petersburg, but so far there has been no reply."
"That's not surprising," the
Cheka
official said. "It sometimes takes ten to fifteen
years before we issue visas-if at all."
"I know that, my dear Tarnoff. But the girl has
learned American ways and she is impatient
Three days ago she arrived in Washington City and
came to the Legation hi person. I didn't see
her myself, but left instructions that she was to return
today. She seems to offer our only hope. She's
been waiting for several hours to see me."
"See her." Baron Tarnoff was decisive. "And
use her!"
"Even though she's an amateur, and her loyalty
to His Majesty may be questionable?"
"We utilize the tools at hand," Baron
Tarnoff said, stalking to the door and pausing
there. "Thank God she appeared when she did. You
surely know how to handle her. Apply the right
pressure, and she'll be
loyal." He left the room and vanished down the
corridor.
The charge
sighed, picked up a small silver bell with an
ivory handle and rang it When a servant in
Imperial livery appeared, he said, "Send in the
young lady who calls herself Tonie Mell." .
Any diplomat who had spent a number of years
hi
I
the United States would have known that the young
His
woman who entered the office was from the West. The
blonde highlights in her short, red hair
indicated long exposure to the sun. She wore no
cosmetics or jewelry, and her awkwardness in
handling her full Skirt and petticoats
as
she curtsied showed an ignorance with such frivolous
attire.
bar She was lean and wiry, with work-roughened hands,
I and at first glance she resembled a boy.
But the
I chorg,
who appreciated women, was quick to note that
I her breasts, although small, were perfectly formed,
that her comwaist was tiny and that the legs that flashed
when she rose from her curtsy were long.
"You are Antoinette Melichev," he said,
addressing her in Russian as he waved her to a
chair.
"Tonie Men," she replied in unaccented
English. "I've been waiting a long time to see
you, and I reckon you know why I'm here."
"Indeed I do," he said, also speaking in English.
"In fact, the delay was caused by a discussion of
your parents' case. Some of my colleagues have been
wondering why any subjects of His Imperial
Majesty would want to leave Russia." "My
aunt and uncle like it here, and so do I," the
girl said, speaking in the blunt manner of the
American West. "My mother and father like what we've
written to them about this country and want to join us."
"It's the policy of Czar Nicholas to permit his
subjects to immigrate only under special
circumstances."
Tonie Mell was dismayed, "Is their
application being turned down?"
"Not necessarily," the
charge
said smoothly. "Their status depends on how
anxious you are to have them join you."
She became fervent "I want it more than anything
else in the world!"
"We shall soon see." He consulted her dossier,
which a subordinate had prepared. "You live in
Missouri?"
"My uncle and aunt own a ranch near the
village of Independence, and that's where I was brought
up."
"You do housework there?"
She shook her head, tousling her short hair.
"Mostly I ride herd and go "hunting with my
uncle. He always wanted a son, I guess, so
I've been kind of a substitute." She smiled
easily. "Out our way there's more need for ranch hands
than cooks."
Perhaps she was better qualified for the mission than the
charge
had dared to hope. "You ride and shoot?"
Tonie Mell couldn't help laughing. "I grew
up in the saddle, and I can handle any gun
made." She spoke without false modesty.
He nodded. "You've heard of the wagon train that's
being organized for an expedition to the Oregon
territory?"
"Heard of it?" She sounded envious. "I've been
reading
everything I can find out about it in the papers! I'd do
most anything to join them."
"Perhaps something can be arranged," the charge
said. "Suppose we provide you with funds for a
wagon, supplies and a team of fine horses?"
The unexpected generosity made the girl
suspicious. "I already have a gelding I raised from
a colt. I rode him here all the way from
Independence."
"Keep your horse, by all means. You'll need a
strong team to pull your wagon. And," the charge
added, "well also give you a purse to pay all your
expenses."
"Why would you do this? And what does it have to do with my
parents being granted an exit visa born
Russia?"
"Do our bidding, and visas will be given to Ivan and
Olga Melichev. Refuse to do it, or fail, and
they'll never be permitted to leave the motherland."
Her green eyes were unwavering. "Just exactly what
are you aiming for me to do, mister?"
The Imperial Russian charge
if affaires
was emphatic. "The wagon train must never be
allowed to reach Oregon."
Stunned, Tonie grew pale beneath her tan. "You
want me to be a traitor to the United States?"
"For your parents' sake," he replied, "we hope
you'll be loyal to the land of your birth."
She began to tremble, and grasped the arms of her
chair to steady herself. "I wouldn't believe this if my
uncle and aunt hadn't told me about the terrible
things the
Cheka
does!"
"Our secret police, like our diplomatic
service, is devoted to the cause of the Czar
Nicholas. When he was
new to the throne, soon after he succeeded his late
brother, may God bless
him,
the Americans and the British pressured
him
into abandoning his claims to the Oregon
Territory. Now he wants only what is
rightfully his."
As Tonie became increasingly aware of her own
dilemma, she was engulfed by a feeling of despair.
Her uncle and aunt hadn't exaggerated when they
told her about the ruthlessness of the secret police, the
callous disregard that all Imperial Russian
officials showed for the natural rights of the Czar's
subjects.
The charge
daffaires
increased the pressure.
"It
you refuse to work with us, the loyalty of your parents
to Mother Russia will be suspect. I'm sure you
wouldn't want to be responsible for their deportation
to Siberia."
In spite of her incredulity, Tonie knew he
meant what he said. She was relieved that she had
left her rifle and pistol at her lodging house,
because if she had either weapon with her she'd be tempted
to put a bullet between his eyes.
"Help us," the
charge
said, "and we're prepared to deal
compassionately with your parents. Refuse, and they'll
pay the consequences."
Tonie hadn't cried since she was a little girl, but
she found it hard to hold back the tears. She was
trapped, caught in the conspiratorial web of a
backward and conniving government that cared nothing about its
people.
"If you tell the American authorities about this
conversation," be continued, "I'll deny it. And the
State Department will choose to believe me, because the
growing trade between Russia and America makes it
I : desirable for both nations to maintain good
relations." [" She wanted to defy him. Only
the knowledge that be her mother and father would be forced to pay the price
for her temerity caused her to clamp her jaws together.
"Which will it be, yes or no?" the charge
demanded. "I must have your reply."
Tonie had no alternative. She loved the
United States, the only country she knew, but
she loved her parents more. And she knew that they'd
never survive the rigors of life in Siberia.
No longer able to meet the man's gaze, she lowered
her head and whispered, "Yes. I'll do what you
ask."
The
charge
tried to hide his exultation. "You won't regret
your decision, and neither will your family," he said.
"You'll be given funds this afternoon, before you leave.
Then you must be on your way without delay."
The girl nodded, too ashamed to speak.
"Now I can reveal that you won't be alone. The
British also are sending an agent to join the
expedition. Work with him when you learn his identity. But
always remember you're in the service of Czar
Nicholas, not William of England."
Tonie despised herself for being weak. It was
ironic. She had dreamed of joining the wagon
train, but in coming true that dream had turned into a
nightmare.
"You've never been married?"
She was jolted anew by the unexpected question, and felt
her face become warm. But she merely shook her
head, telling herself that it was none of his damn business
if she was still a virgin.
"Before you leave, well invent a story for you," hel
said. "But keep your own name. You lack the experience
to use another. You've lived in the West, but be I
vague about where. Present yourself as a widow who's!
going to Oregon to begin a new lite. And
always, of-1
ways,
find new ways to delay the journey and cause
trouble for the wagon train."
Until a few minutes ago Tome had relished
every-1 thing in life, but now she could only wish she was
dead. bar
In spite of Claudia Humphries"
protests, the die was cast. Her house and the mill in
New Haven were sold. She'd accepted payment in
U.s. Government securities, which she regarded
as so many scraps of paper. She had cashed in one
to buy herself a wagon and a team of horses; if she
had to travel west, and there seemed to be no
escape, at least she wouldn't be forced to live and
sleep in the very same wagon with her sister and
brother-in-law. The vehicle that would be her new
"home," together with the horses that would pull it, were already
in the Van Ayl barn.
As hard as Claudia tried to accept the
inevitability of her new future, she couldn't do
it. Thanks to laws made by men, she had no control
over her inheritance, no voice in the determination of the
way she would live. Her own wishes counted for
nothing. Like a small child or a slave she was
forced to "bow to the judgment of Otto van Ayl,
whose mentality society regarded as superior to hers
simply because he was a male and she was a "helpless"
female.
In her present frame of mind, Claudia knew
that
even the slightest incident might trigger a violent
outburst of temper-which would only prove to Otto that
even the most sophisticated of grown women was still Just
a little girl. Somehow she must gain the upper hand over
her emotions. But the knowledge that she would soon be heading
west only soured her spirit.
Cathy and Otto had gone to the village to conclude
the sale of their house and to make some last-minute
purchases, so Claudia was alone. Most of her
belongings were packed, but she felt restless. She
wandered from room to room, accompanied by Quincy, her
shepherd dog.
When she heard a sharp tap at the back door of the
farmhouse, Claudia looked out through the window before
she went to the door. Two men were waiting, the elder
in a rusty black suit and the younger in dirty
buckskins. Both looked so disreputable that she
took the precaution of removing Otto's pistol from
a cupboard drawer to carry with her. It was
always best to be prepared.
"Who's there?" she said as she approached the door.
"Sam Brentwood and Whip Holt, ma'am.
We've come to arrange with Mr. van Ayl for the
wagon train."
Claudia sighed. Her fate couldn't be avoided.
She was surprised to see that Quincy, usually on his
guard with strangers, was wagging his tail. Wishing she
could send the two men away, she opened the door.
Sam Brentwood patted the dog as though they were
old friends, then grinned at the young woman.
"Ma'am," he said politely as he took the
pistol from
her hand, "firearms don't do much good unless they're
properly prepared for use." He cocked the
weapon, then offered it back to her.
Claudia was as angry with herself as she was with him.
Refusing to touch the pistol again, she glared at him.
"Be good enough to wipe the mud off your boots before you
come inside!"
For a moment Sam Brentwood stared at her. With her
cultured accent, genteel gestures and fancy
airs, she sounded like a great lady. But her eyes were
rimmed with kohl and she wore rouge on her mouth, just
like the tarts he'd known in river towns out
west. And the way her snug-fitting dress clung
to her body put ideas into a man's head that had no
right being there.
The combination of qualities he saw in her-or
imagined he saw-were bewildering. He was willing
to bet his mother had been just this sort before she vanished with
her lover. Hellfire, this woman-half fancy
lady, half fancy harlot-was just about the age his
mother had been when she'd disappeared, in her late
twenties. Sam felt an unreasoning surge of
anger, but did his best to conquer it. It was absurd
to want to humiliate a woman who was a total
stranger to him.
Claudia felt his eyes boring into her, and was
outraged. Somehow it was typical of a man to think he
could treat a woman with an insolent lack of
respect, expecting her to be grateful, perhaps, because
he showed a spark of interest in her. What artogancet
"For the second time," she said crisply, "please
wipe the mud off your boots!"
"Yes, ma'am." Sam obeyed with alacrity,
Whip fol-
lowing his example. Still holding the pistol, Sam
couldn't resist taking aim at a lone, dead leaf
suspended from the branch of an elm tree at
the far side of the front yard. He squeezed the
trigger, and when the smoke cleared away the leaf had
vanished.
Claudia was impressed by this feat, but refused
to let him see her reaction, since it was obvious
to her that he'd shown off for her benefit.
"This gun has too much of a kick for a lady," he
said. "I recommend that you use one that's lighter and
smaller."
"Maybe I have one in my gear," Whip said.
were they laughing at her? "Thank you all the same,"
she said frigidly, "but I don't really approve
of pistols and the like." Closing the door behind them, she
realized she had to be hospitable. "May I offer
you something to eat?"
"That's right kind of you, Mrs. van Ayl," Sam
said.
"Mrs. van Ayl is my sister. My name is
Humphries."
"Well, now." Sam was appreciating her
appearance, as most men did. "So you're Mrs.
Humphries. Mr. van Ayl wrote that you were
going on the wagon train with us, but as he said you were a
widow,! I kind of had it in my head that you'd be
much' older and plainer."
Perhaps he intended the remark as a compliment If so,
there was no time like the present to put him in his place.
"I can't apologize for my age, and I believe
that any woman who deliberately makes herself
look plain is guilty of false modesty."
Whip Holt was enjoying Sam's discomfort in dealing
with this sharp-tongued young woman. He chuckled
quietly.
Claudia removed a smoked ham from the larder,
placed it on the table with bread, cheese and butter,
and then set a jug of hard cider between the pair.
"My sister and brother-in-law should be back soon,
so help yourselves."
"I'd best put our horses in the stable first,"
Whip said. "Where is it?"
"In back of the house, of course." Claudia was
irritated by the question.
He hurried off, carefully closing the door behind
him.
Sam Brentwood, alone with the young woman, couldn't
help staring at her. Her beauty was enhanced by her
cosmetics, and her silk gown, revealing a ripe
figure, made him realize how long it had been
since he'd last had a woman.
Not even attempting to check himself, he reached
for her.
Outraged, Claudia slapped him hard across the
face, angered because Quincy continued to wag his tail
as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Get
your hands off me!" she cried. "What do you take
me for?"
Sam was aghast. Although her attack had caused him
no physical pain, he realized that he had made
a mistake. He went on to compound it "I didn't
realize you were a lady," he said.
He was adding insult to insult, and she tried to sweep
past him. Under no circumstances would she make a
long journey across the continent in the company of such a
man.
He blocked her path. "Ma'am," he said, "I
apologize. In my part of the country, there's two
kinds of women, and I got confused into thinking you were the
other kind."
Claudia could see his contrition was genuine, but she was
not mollified. "But the very
second vie
were alone you grabbed me. Do I look like a
harlot?"
Even in this embarrassing situation he could not dissemble.
"Well, ma'am, out my way the fancy
women all wear silk and paint their faces."
In spite of her anger she wanted to laugh. This
seemingly hard-bitten westerner had acted out of
ignorance. "I don't pretend to be high-born,"
she said, "but I can assure you that in this part of the
United States a great many ladies of quality-
wear silk dresses and use cosmetics."
His ears burned as he shuffled his feet. "If
you'll give me half a chance to become better
acquainted, Mrs. Humphries, you'll discover
I don't go around trying to kiss ladies."
She looked at him, biting her lower lip.
Sam now had the suspicion that she was laughing at
him because of his innocence, and he felt even worse, but
he forced himself to meet her steady gaze. "Ma'am,
I'm sorry as all hell I thought you was a harlot
I didn't know the way ladies look hereabouts. But
I'm not the least bit sorry I thought you was so
pretty that I couldn't help reaching out for you."
Claudia was flattered.
"We're going to be on the trail together for a long
time, ma'am, and I'd rather be friends than enemies.
What do you say?" He extended a hand.
She realized she had to shake hands with him, even though
she couldn't completely forgive him, now or
,ever. But she managed to force a smile.
At that moment Whip returned from the stable. Aware
of the tension in the air, he quietly poured himself a
mug of cider, raised it in a silent toast and
drank.
Sam Brentwood was one man Claudia would never
forget. Some day she might even enjoy telling the
story of his incredible naivete.
Sam sniffed the contents of the jug, then shook his
head. "If it isn't too much trouble, Mrs.
Humphries, I'd rather have milk or tea, or just
ordinary water."
"You don't drink, Mr. Brentwood?"
"I can't, ma'am. Liquor doesn't agree with
me, and I always used to feel sorry after it made
me do such damn-fool things, so I gave it up."
Claudia was both astonished and pleased by his
candor, and as she went to the wood-burning stove for the
teakettle she softened a trifle her hostility
toward him. "I'm aware of the problem," she heard
herself saying. "It was drink that killed my husband."
Sam's nod was grave. "It's rotten medicine for
those who can't handle it. My friend Mike Holt here
can drink any ten men under the table, but after just a
swallow or two I wouldn't rightly
remember my own name."
She handed him a cup of tea, then decided to pour
one for herself. He was younger than she'd realized, and his
honesty was refreshing. "You have courage."
"No, ma'am, common sense. It's like my bad
hip. Pretending it's all right doesn't make the
stiffness go away." He ate slowly, savoring his
food. "This is fine bread. You must have baked it
today."
It was Claudia's turn to be frank. "My
sister made it. I always had a hired girl to do my
cooking for me."
"Sam is one of the best cooks there is," Whip
said. "Maybe hell give you lessons on the
trail."
"Sure." Sam looked at her and smiled.
All the circumstances that Claudia disliked about the
coming journey flashed before her vision. "If I have my
way," she said, speaking with almost explosive
intensity, "Til never learn to cook anything!"
The two men exchanged glances, and Whip raised an
eyebrow.
"You're aiming to spend your time just riding in the wagon
with the Van Ayls?"
"Certainly not! I'm traveling hi my own
wagon."
Sam ran a hand through his graying hair. "Who's
going to drive it for you?"
"Ill drive myself, naturally," she said with
contempt "I've been handling horses all my
life, and I assure you 111 feel safer if
Fm holding the reins than if Otto van Ayl
is sitting on the boards."
"Well, now," was all Sam could manage.
Whip wanted to laugh, but thought better of it.
Independent-thinking women were troublemakers, and he was
relieved that he wouldn't be on hand during the first part
of the trip. Sam Brentwood would have his hands full
with this ornery widow.
"I appreciated your honesty when you told me about
your drinking, Mr. Brentwood," Claudia said,
"so 111
return the compliment. The only reason Fm going
west is because I have no choice. I hate the whole
prospect. I don't care about fanning. I have no
interest hi seeing uninhabited country and I loathe
the very thought of traveling through the wilderness."
Sam patted the dog, who was stretched out on the
floor between them, as he tried to absorb what she
said. "When you take the right precautions,"
he said, "there isn't too much to fear in the
wilderness, ma'am."
"Who said anything about fear?" Claudia was
scornful. "I don't like being uncomfortable, that's
all."
If she were to come face to face with a cougar in the
Rocky Mountains, he thought, the beast's instinct would
prompt it to flee. "Are you taking this dog?"
"Quiney goes everywhere with me. We look after each
other." Claudia stopped short of saying that she and the
shepherd, as a team, were self-sufficient.
Sam Brentwood was far more sensitive to the feelings
of others than most of his acquaintances realized.
He understood precisely what this high-minded young
woman was saying, and he decided to clear the air
immediately rather than wait until complications
developed. "You say you know horses, ma'am, so
I'm sure you realize they do their best work when a
team pulls together."
She waited warily. She had no idea what he was
trying to tell her.
"The reason I'm making this haul for Mr. Astor
and the others," Sam said, "is because I'm an old friend
of Jed Smith's, so I couldn't rightly refuse when
he and Andy Jackson asked me to do it."
Claudia had no use for President Jackson
or any of his rough crew.
"Being a wagon master makes me responsible for
everybody in the party," he continued, and there was no
humor now in his pale eyes, "but they're
responsible to me, too. It's a mighty long way
from here to the Missouri River. Fifteen hundred
miles as the crow flies. And we aren't crows, so
we'll be doing some extra meandering. The only way
we'll get there is if we all work together in
harness."
She wished Quincy would stop inching closer to the man.
"Just what are you trying to tell me, Mr. Brent-
wood?"
"Nobody, including me, is going to hold a gun
to your head and make you roast a side of beef,
Mrs. Humphries," he said. "If you don't like
cooking that's your right, and I reckon there'll be
plenty of ladies hi the tram who'll be glad
to cook for us all. But you'll still be given chores
to do, I can promise you."
She bristled.
He went on quickly, before she could reply. "Quincy
will have his jobs, too." Smiling to remove the sting from
his words, he scratched the shepherd behind the
ears.
Claudia made no comment. Neither this man nor
anyone else could force her to do anything against her will,
but she saw no need to make an issue of it before she
learned what he meant by chores. There was no sound in
the kitchen but the slow, steady thumping of the dog's
tail on the floor.
The tension was still thick when Otto and Cathy van
Ayl returned home a short time later, Otto
struggling with a satchel so heavy he could scarcely
carry it He was delighted to see the newcomers.
Placing the satchel within easy reach, he peppered
them with questions about the upcoming journey.
Cathy, always shy in the presence of strangers, finally
asked a question of her own. "How soon will we leave?"
Whip Holt hadn't been able to take his eyes off
her. She was far prettier than her sister, he
thought, and a good deal softer, with no arrogance in her.
How unusual that such a lovely girl should be
married to such an old man. "It all depends on
how soon you're ready to go," he said. "Have you
stretched your canvas over your wagons yet?"
"We have the wood for it," Otto said. "Good,
seasoned willow. But we want the covers to be
waterproof, so we've been waiting for you
to show us what to do."
"That shouldn't take more than a couple of hours,"
Sam said, "and if you stash away your gear tonight you'll
just have your mattresses to throw fa tomorrow morning. That
way, we can get an early start."
There's no need for that," Claudia said. "The
Orient Point ferryboat sails once a week,
and leaves tomorrow at noon. It'll take us across
Long Island Sound to New London, and from there we
can take the road to Albany."
Sam was startled by her commanding words, and he wondered
if he was actually the wagon master of the train.
Unfortunately, her advice was sensible. That'll
give you more time to pack all the things you have here."
"Most of them will be left behind," Cathy said. "We
sold them as part of the property."
Otto explained. "I figured it would be wrong
to take more than we need, and there's just so much can be
squeezed into a wagon. So I took cash instead,
which I always prefer."
Claudia showed the guests to the room they would occupy
that night, as Cathy began to prepare the last meal
she would cook under this roof. Otto took his satchel
outdoors.
Whip Holt returned to the kitchen. "I
thought you might need some help, Mrs. van Ayl,"
he said.
Cathy blushed deeply. This hard-bitten giant
had fascinated her from the first moment she'd seen him,
and she was astonished that anyone so masculine should offer
to help her out in the kitchen.
Whip smiled, aware of her confusion. "Suppose
I scrub these potatoes for you. Then, after your
fire dies down a mite, I'll start roasting the
beef. And don't open those jars of pickled
onions and beets. They pack easy and they'll
keep on the road, so take them with you."
Cathy accepted his help with a quick, shy smile.
Otto never did anything for her other than chop
firewood and bring it into the kitchen. She even
pumped her own water.
Whip worked efficiently and rapidly. He wasted
no time, but didn't seem to be rushing.
"You're a very good helper," she said.
"When a man spends as much time on the trail as I
have, traveling through the mountains all the way to the
Pacific, he learns to make do for himself."
She had no right to question him. Still, she was curious.
"It must be a lonely life," she ventured.
Whip shrugged. "It's the only life I
know. Besides, no wife would want to live on the
trail. Some day, if I get the wandering fever out of
my blood, then maybe I'll settle down. I
love it out there. There's no place on earth like the
Oregon country." His eyes shone.
"I hope I like it as much as you do," Cathy said.
"Nobody can help liking it," he assured her.
"The mountains are high as the Rockies, with snow on
the peaks the year 'round. Forests stretch out far as
human eyes can see, and they're filled with game.
You can blame near scoop salmon and trout out of the
rivers with your bare hands, and the water is the purest and
best tasting there is."
"Aren't the Indians dangerous?"
"Not if you treat them right. They're willing to share the
country with us if we don't cheat and steal from them."
He sounded so casual about Indians that her fears were
somewhat allayed. The presence of Whip Holt would
be comforting in dangerous territory. Though she
didn't share Claudia's distaste for the new
adventure, she would have been content to remain on
Long Island, in spite of her dreary life there and
their lack of friends.
"Here, let me attend to that," Whip said. As he
took the roast from her, their hands touched.
Her whole body tingled. She felt as though a
jolt of electricity had shot through her, a reaction
as startling as it was sudden. She realized that she was
strongly
attracted to this stranger, and the discovery horrified
her.
Whip was feeling unusual stirrings, too. He had
lived with an Indian girl in the mountains, and
occasionally he'd paid brief visits
to prostitutes, but he'd never before been drawn to a
lady. But there was something special about Cathy van
Ayl, and an unexpected magnetism was surely
at work.
She was feminine and desirable-but she was also a married
woman, and so beyond his reach, no matter that her husband
was a cantankerous old goat. She was stni the
man's wife, and he had to respect her position.
He'd known hunters and trappers who boasted of
fooling around with other men's wives, but they filled
him with contempt. Though he could when necessary with neither
guilt nor remorse, he knew he could never
live with himself if he took unfair advantage
of a young lady's innocence and trust
Edging away as he placed the meat on the fire, he
was glad he'd be leaving the party in a few
weeks" time, once Sam had the group well
organized. By the time he rejoined them on the
Missouri River next fall, he should have the
proper rein on his feelings.
"While supper is cooking," he said, "maybe I
can help your husband cover his wagon."
"Til show you the way to the barn," Cathy said,
taking care not to look directly at him again.
Otto van Ayl was hammering boards into place on
the floor of his wagon as they joined him. He
seemed to be taken aback. Whip curbed the
impulse to watch her as Cathy returned to the
house, and forced himself
to concentrate on bending the willow rods and fastening
them to the sides of the wagon in a shape that resembled
a horseshoe. Otto observed him, then went to work
with a vengeance, too.
As Whip nailed the struts into place he wondered
why Van Ayl had been so upset as they entered the
barn. Real fear had been on his face, yet he'd
only been engaged in an ordinary chore, securing
loose floorboards. That task was still unfinished as
he worked on the stays.
All at once it dawned on Whip that there was something
different about the floor of this wagon. He
didn't want to seem suspicious, but when he
stepped back from the wagon to inspect his own handiwork,
Whip examined the boards more carefully. Suddenly
he knew.
This wagon had double flooring. An entire new
floor had been placed over the original base.
This was odd, particularly since there seemed to be a
space three or four inches deep between the two
floors. Pondering as he went back to putting the
hoops in place, Whip noticed the satchel that
Van Ayl had carried from the house. It was open
now, and a quick glance told Whip that it was empty.
All at once, Whip knew what had happened: the
farmer had built a second, false floor in
order to hide his valuables between them. A man had the
right to protect his property in any way he saw
fit, but Whip concluded that Van Ayl was being
foolish. Wagons were fragile. They could be
smashed or otherwise wrecked on the long journey
across the continent. A favorite trick of Plains
Indians was to shoot flaming
arrows into the carts of trappers, and it was likely
they'd use the same technique against covered
wagons. Not only would Van Ayl's wagon be
burned to the ground, any paper money hidden
in it would go up in smoke, too.
What Van Ayl had done was none of Whip's
business. If he elected to conceal his fortune-large
or small comt was his own concern. But the way he'd
chosen to hide it was so foolhardy, Whip figured it
would be a disservice to remain silent
"Mr. van Ayl," he said, taking a deep
breath, "you're making a big mistake. This double
flooring doesn't give you anywhere near the
protection you think it does."
Otto van Ayl was shocked. "You've seen what
I pot underneath?"
Whip nodded. "Your wagon could break down, or be
destroyed, or bust up on a river crossing, or
bum to bits. And that could mean the end of your money."
The older man became agitated. "I've spent a
long time planning how to make my wagon the way I
want it And there's no better way to protect what
I've put in there."
"You're wrong," Whip said. "Sam Brentwood
has ordered a special wagon that we're going
to be picking op in a few days. It'll hold
everything: ammunition, firearms, spare wagon parts
and harnesses. Emergency food supplies, too.
It's so solid and so heavy it'll need a
team of four horses to pull it Talk to Sam.
I'm sure hell let you keep your money in that
wagon. It will be safer there than anywhere else."
Van Ayl wasn't convinced. "All that stands between
me and starvation," he said, "is what I've spent
my whole life saving. If you
think
I'm going to trust it to a man I just met today,
you're crazy!"
Whip shrugged. "HeUfire, Mister, it's your
money. Do what you please. I was just trying
to help."
Van Ayl turned on him. "You were snooping.
That's what you were doing."
It was difficult, but Whip managed to control his
temper.
""You've got to promise me something," Van
Ayl said.
"What's that?"
"Don't tell anybody what you've seen."
Whip nodded, but made a mental note to reveal
to Sam Brentwood what he had just learned. The
wagon- master had the right to know everything of importance
about his train. Furthermore, President
Jackson had warned Sam to expect trouble
on the long journey- and to prepare for it Sam
wouldn't need any extra complications.
"Most of aHave," Otto van Ayl added, "I
don't want my wife or her sister to know."
It was impossible for Whip to hide his surprise.
"My wife is so young and giddy, she'd spend every
last penny if she knew I had it."
Whip had judged Cathy van Ayl to be as sensible
as she was pretty. Nothing about her indicated a
giddy nature.
"If I let her have money, it would seep through her
fingers like water." The farmer's eyes gleamed, and his
mouth was small and tight.
Studying him, Whip Holt couldn't help deciding
that Van Aeayl was a miser.
"Promise me you won't say a word to Cathy!"
Whip was disgusted. "I promise." It wasn't enough
that such a young, attractive woman was married to a
man old enough to be her father, she was also married to a
miser. Whip couldn't help sympathizing with Cathy
van Ayl. Because she was the kind of girl he had
always wanted to marry, he couldn't refrain from wanting
to help her. Then he told himself to mind his own
business. Cathy was a married woman, and that was that
III
A raw March wind ruffled the chilly, blue-green
waters of Long Island Sound, and there was no hint of
spring in the air. Claudia could have told Sam
Brentwood that winter was inclined to linger longer here, but
she preferred to volunteer no information whatsoever to a
know-it-all.
Sam's thoughts as he stood on the deck of the ferry
would have surprised her. He reflected that Long
Island, New England and many other parts of the United
States were remarkably similar. Most houses and
shops here were one or two stories high, made of
clapboard and whitewashed-just as they were in the Ohio
Valley. Which, come to think of it, had been settled
by New Englanders.
"What town is this?" Sam asked, as the ferry
drew close to the shore. "New Haven?"
Claudia's reply was lofty. "New Haven,"
she said, "is a city of twenty-five thousand people. This
hap
pens to
be
New London, which has only ten thousand."
Sam grunted his thanks and turned away from her.
In spite of his good intentions, he wasn't sure
he could tolerate this lofty lady with such
exquisite manners- plus the cosmetics smeared
on her face. Just once he'd like to scrub away
all her makeup.
Feeling his eyes on the back of her head,
Claudia automatically stiffened. If he touched
her again, she told herself, she'd hit him twice as
hard. Some men understood nothing but physical
violence.
"This is New London, folks!" the ferry
operator called-, throwing a line to his mate on
the dock.
They came ashore at the foot of State Street,
the main thoroughfare. Sam, dressed now in the
buckskins that would be his uniform on the journey,
organized the line of march.
He placed Whip at the head of the column. The
"tram," this early in the trip, consisted of only
two wagons. Otto and Cathy's was first, with
Claudia's close behind them. Sam, his rifle in
a sling and a pistol in his belt, moved constantly from
the front of the column to the rear, then back to the
front again.
"When we get a dozen wagons or more," he
explained, "we've got to be ready for problems every
minute of the day. Wheels will fall off and
axles will break. Then we've got to stop the whole
wagon train until it gets fixed. Later on,
I'll find some riders to spell me, but till I
do I'll oversee things myself, and there's no better
time to start than now."
The man was conscientious. Claudia had to admit
that. Although she was still smarting over his initial insult,
she had to admit that he was now the soul of
courtesy. Perhaps he wasn't as common as she'd
supposed.
Perhaps he'd simply made a mistake. Still, she
couldn't picture him at a New Haven dinner
table with her friends. He simply wouldn't fit in, and
she told herself she wasn't being snobbish in feeling
so.
Claudia looked around her. New London was
Connecticut's principal seaport, with merchant
ships from many nations in the harbor. But if its
inhabitants were accustomed to strange, foreign
sights, they lived nonetheless in a staid New
England community, and the pioneers had created an immediate
stir. The two covered wagons were unlike any
vehicles the townspeople had ever seen.
A man fishing from the wharf called out, "Where you
heading?"
"Oregon," Sam replied.
Oregon That single word had a galvanizing effect
Onlookers poured out of State Street shops and
markets, as all the windows in the buildings along the
street were opened and occupants leaned out to watch the
little procession.
For the wagon train was an indication of what was to come.
Thanks to the publicity generated by newspaper
advertisements, everyone in town knew about the
expedition to the far Pacific. And a boy in his teens
expressed the wish of many of his elders when he
called out wistfully, "Take me with you!"
Harnesses creaked and wheels clattered as the
ungainly wagons bounced on the cobblestones.
Small children ran alongside, peering at the
occupants, whose progress was further impeded
by barking dogs-Whip, already proceeding at a crawl,
had to slow the minia-
tore caravan to a snail's pace on the
half-mile ride to the head of State Street.
Well-wishers called out their greetings:
"God bless you!"
"Have a safe journey!"
"May God ride with you!"
Claudia smiled and waved. It was
exciting. She remembered as a child seeing
President James Madison passing through town in
a carriage. He, too, had smiled and waved.
Several young men, entering into the spirit of the occasion, mounted
their horses and escorted the little procession out of
town for several miles. When the bolder blades
tried to flirt, Claudia maintained an aloof but
pleasant attitude. Cathy was enjoying herself
thoroughly.
Cathy's attitude changed abruptly, however,
when one of the men called out, "Ask your Pa if I
can court you, honey!" Otto spoke to her in an
angry undertone, and thereafter she stared straight ahead,
pretending to disregard the playful young men.
At first, they averaged almost twenty-five miles a
day, a speed Sam said was miraculous. "Once
we start adding new folks," he said, "we'll do
well to make ten miles a day."
Quincy had taken to Sam. Ordinarily Claudia
trusted her dog's judgment, but it irritated her that
Quincy could accept this boor as a friend. Of course
no dog could be expected to discern the refinements that a
lady found attractive in a man.
One afternoon they halted for the day around 4:00 near the
bank of a wooded lake. Each night,
Sam in
tasted
they make camp near water, and he always made
certain there were woods nearby. Firewood and
water, Claudia learned, were essentials. No
wagon train could do without them.
As Whip fished in the lake, Otto gathered
firewood and Cathy began to cook supper. Before
Sam went to join Whip, he took time to speak
to Claudia. "Seeing you don't plan to do any
cooking, you can fetch the water."
Claudia was tired, but she knew it was only fair
to do her part. She bit back a retort and accepted
the tasks in silence. Thereafter, both morning and
night, she transported the water. After several
days her muscles hardened and she found that she could
comfortably carry two buckets at the same time.
She found a grim satisfaction in performing her
tasks. Sam Brentwood, she felt, had
deliberately humiliated her by assigning her to such
a demeaning task, and she wouldn't forgive him for it.
Quincy's, preference for the wagonmaster annoyed
her, and one day she tried to break the animal of his
new attachment. But for the first time Ouincy refused
to obey her, and she was forced to leave the dog
be. At night, however, Quincy continued to sleep
at the entrance to Claudia's wagon, guarding her.
Then, even Sam might have encountered problems had he
chosen to come near, but he took care to keep his
distance. Clearly the austere wagonmaster, polite
to a fault, was atoning for his initial error. In
spite of herself, Claudia couldn't help wishing he
would sometimes forget the rift between them and treat her like a
woman.
The caravan continued to attract the same kind of
attention it had received in New London.
Claudia got most of the attention and although she knew
it was her own fault she stubbornly refused
to change her ways. She continued to use rouge and
kohl, partly out of habit and partly, she
privately admitted, to defy Sam Brentwood.
Her clothes, as she well knew, were totally
unsuitable for the journey. Her dresses, made of
silk, linen and broadcloth-some of them
lace-trimmed, some requiring full
petticoats-were all wrong. Eventually, she
knew, she'd have to buy cotton and muslin and make
herself some more suitable dresses.
She was in no rush, however. Sooner or later,
she'd cure Sam Brentwood of his
mistaken belief that anyone who wore such clothes was
a strumpet. The memory of her initial encounter with
him continued to annoy her.
She quickly developed the habit of wearing a
broad- brimmed, feathered hat on the road. When
they'd been made for her, these hats were intended for far
more formal occasions-a reception given by the Governor
of Connecticut or perhaps a tea in honor of a
distinguished visitor to Yale College. But
Claudia had discovered that the hats protected her
face from the sun, and she wore one each day. It
didn't matter to her in the least that they were unsuitable
for travel by covered wagon. And although any
passerby who cared to assume she was a pioneer was
entitled to that opinion, Claudia knew better.
She despised Otto van Ayl for forcing her
to make this interminable journey into the unknown.
She was worried about Cathy, who seemed as interested
in Whip Holt as he was in her. Not that she
could blame her sister. Holt was personable,
quiet- spoken and respectful, a gentleman, in
fact, even though he earned his living as a hunter and
guide. If anyone was to blame it was Papa, who,
when he'd given her in marriage to Otto van
Ayl, had thought only in terms of Cathy's
financial security. Otto, with his narrow
opinions and avariciousness, cared no more for Cathy
than for any of his other possessions, and Cathy was
starved for affection.
Holt didn't appear to be the kind of man who would
take advantage of her situation, but there was always the
possibility that, sooner or later, he'd give in
to temptation. Claudia didn't trust any man.
And she hated to think what Otto might do if his
wife became involved with another man. Cathy was his
property, to be treated as he saw fit, and
Claudia didn't doubt that he would sell her
into indentured service if she was unfaithful.
But for the present, at least, Claudia preferred not
to interfere. A candid talk with Cathy could wait.
Holt had indicated he'd be leaving the caravan
soon, and Claudia hoped he'd go before he became
too involved with Cathy. Meanwhile she was keeping
watch over them, feeling apprehensive every time she
saw them exchange quick, guilty glances. It was
astonishing that Otto remained unaware of what was
developing. Claudia could only assume that he was
too full of self-satisfaction, now that his dream
of going west was coming true.
When they reached Albany, Sam led his
small train straight to the U.s. Army depot
located on the banks of the Hudson River. His
own special wagon, built ao
cording to his specifications, was waiting there. Long
and heavy, it needed four sets of wheels instead of
two. Its baseboards were made of weathered oak, in
order to carry the greatest weight
Andrew Jackson had given orders-since confirmed
by Martin Van Buren, who had now taken office as
President-that the wagonmaster was to be given the
supplies he needed. Rifles, pistols,
gunpowder and shot took up the least space. Spare
wheels, axles, tools and harnesses were bulky, as
were the barrels of salt fish and smoked meat,
ordinarily used as Army rations, that would be kept for
emergency use in the event the wagon train ran out
of food. There were spare pots and skillets, too,
as well as spades, shovels, other tools and many
coils of rope. Sam Brcntwood was preparing for
any emergency.
He carefully inspected the team of four work
horses that would pull the special supply wagon,
and had a long talk with Abe Ellis, the hired
driver. A taciturn, middle-aged man with a
wife and children in Albany, Ellis was making
the trip only for the wages. As soon as a member
of the expedition could replace him, he would return
to his family. In his younger days he had made two
trips by wagon to the Ohio Valley and a third
to Tennessee, where he had been captured and tortured
by Cherokees. Two fingers of his left hand were missing
as a result of that experience. He loathed all
Indians.
"When I see one of them bastards," he said, "I
shoot."
Sam knew Ellis would have to be replaced before they
reached Indian country. Most Indians who lived
east of the Mississippi River had been tamed, but
they were still dangerous when provoked, and Ellis
seemed just the sort of man who could do the provoking.
But Ellis would be fine for the first part of the journey.
He was solid and reliable, and he knew horses.
The special wagon would be in good hands.
They spent two days hi Albany while the wagon
was loaded under Sam's careful supervision.
Claudia, who had little to do, spent roost of her time
wandering about the town. She was not impressed. Albany
should have had something of the flavor of New Haven, even
the excitement of New York and Philadelphia,
but it didn't.
Theri were warehouses on the waterfront and a number
of small factories operating here and there, but the
atmosphere was rural rather than urban. Farmers
brought their wares into a large, open-air market,
ignoring the snowbanks that hadn't yet melted.
Late in March the pioneers left town and started
westward toward Syracuse. They had hardly reached
the outskirts of Albany, however, when they saw a
wagon awaiting them at the crossroads. As Sam
called a halt, a rider in buckskins raced
toward the caravan, on a gelding,
Claudia, whose wagon had been given first place
for the day, observed the slender young man with reddish-
gold hair, a rifle across the pommel, bend low
in the saddle as he galloped. Not until the youth
reined in his gelding did Claudia realize, with a
shock, that the rider was a girl.
"I'm Mrs. Mell," the young woman said, almost
stumbling over the unaccustomed "Mrs." Smiling to
cover her self-consciousness, she added, "Tonie
Mell."
Tony was a man's name. Claudia stared at her,
disliking this tomboy on sight. She had to admit,
however, that the girl's figure beneath her buckskins was
very trim. She wore no cosmetics, and
her hair was absurdly short.
"How do." Sam and Whip spoke at once.
"How do," Tonie replied. This time the broad
grin was genuine. These two men were her kind of people.
"I'm a widow," she said, hating herself for the role
she was playing. "I've read about this expedition, and
I'd like to join you. I want to start a new life."
Sam passed immediate judgment. "Welcome," he
said, and introduced the girl to the others. Then, as they
started forward toward her waiting team and wagon, he
asked casually, "You come from out West?"
"Uh-huh." Tonie was deliberately vague, as
she'd been ordered.
"What part of Missouri do you hail from?" Sam
said.
"Who says I come from Missouri?"
"No need to say so," he replied. "I can tell
it from your accent."
Tonie realized It would be dangerous to dissemble.
"Independence. I grew up there."
Sam nodded pleasantly. He assigned her a
place at the rear of the train, behind the special
wagon. Anyone who could ride as she did was a
valuable addition to the party. He suspected she
might even know how to use the rifle she
carried. In any case, he felt at ease with
her; a girl who had grown up on the frontier could
be helpful in many ways.
Tonie climbed onto her wagon, her gelding
walking beside it on a long lead. It had been
absurdly easy to join the train. She hadn't been
forced to show any of the false documents the Russian
Legation had prepared.
She was deeply ashamed of deceiving these people. Except
for the high-nosed blonde in the silk dress, who
looked as though she was on her way to a garden party,
the pioneers seemed to be decent and honorable people.
How would they act if they found out her true
purpose in joining them?
She knew well enough what Sam Brentwood and
Whip Holt would do. She'd known many men like them.
Her instinct told her that Brentwood could be
cold-bloodedly ruthless if the occasion demanded.
He'd put a bullet through her head if he found out
she was a traitor to the United States. Well,
that would be one way to end her misery, not that she wanted
such a drastic solution. She hated the assignment
she'd been given, but she didn't want to die.
As always, her common sense came to her rescue,
restoring her natural sense of balance.
Anyone who'd lived for years at the edge of the
wilderness was by nature a pragmatist. Each day
had to be lived for its own sake. It was pointless
to worry about tomorrow when tomorrow might never come-thanks
to Indian raids or natural catastrophe. With
luck, Tonie reflected, she might yet find
some way to resolve her terrible dilemma.
Late that afternoon Sam called a halt in a
pleasant stretch of woods beside a swift-moving
river. As Tonie unhitched her work horses and
let them browse, she noted with amusement that the
uppity blonde was al
ready fetching water from the stream. It was good to know that
her ladyship didn't know
she was above a little hard work.
Mounting her gelding, Tonie rode forward to where the
men were standing. "Sam," she said, "I'm going
to exercise my horse for a spell. He gets
restless if he doesn't work up a sweat. While
I'm about it, maybe I could bring us back some
supper."
Sam's level gaze was thoughtful as he looked up
at her. There was no time like the present to see if she
could like up to the promise of her background and
appearance. "Do that," he said.
Tonie cantered off into the woods.
Sam knew one thing: She sure as hell could
ride. He helped Whip erect some crude
barriers to prevent the horses from straying off into the
woods. Then, as
i
he started back to the camp, he saw Claudia
walking ahead of him carrying two buckets of
water. She moved easily, with no apparent strain,
and he realized how much stronger she had already become.
Although she still kept her distance, she no longer acted
as though she suspected he might pounce on her at
any moment, and that was-an improvement. His basic
faith in human nature, essential to anyone who
lived in the wilderness, made him hope that she would
some day be willing to bury the hatchet. Perhaps a
friendly gesture might speed that day. He caught up
with her and relieved her of one of the buckets.
"That's very kind of you," she said.
"Just don't let it spoil you, ma'am," he
replied with agrin.
Claudia changed the subject. "Who's the new
girl?"
"We'll find out soon enough. I don't rightly know
her yet myself." Sam nodded in the
direction of a flock of geese, flying low in formation
northward. "Damnation! A goose or two cooked
over the fire would have been tasty tonight."
They heard the crack of a rifle in the distance.
"Could be," Sam said, placing the buckets on the
ground near the kettles, "we'll find out about
Tonie Mell sooner than I thought."
Claudia noted that he was already calling the tomboy
by her first name. When they heard another rifle crack
ten minutes later, Sam said, "I reckon she
missed those geese."
In a quarter of an hour, Tonie rode calmly
into camp. Hanging from her saddle were a large wild
turkey and a plump goose. In a natural,
offhand way, she handed both birds to the wagonmaster.
"Here's supper," she said.
Rejoicing inwardly, Sam nodded. "Not bad shooting,"
he said.
"Not too bad," she replied. "Here, let me
get them ready for the fire. Easterners don't know
how to cook wild fowl and that can ruin the flavor."
Watching the girl obliquely, Claudia decided
she was too talented to be real. She certainly
didn't know how to make herself attractive. And she
certainly wasn't a lady.
Not that it mattered to people like Sam Brentwood,
Claudia thought, immediately wondering why she should care
what opinion he formed of anyone. He and
Whip Holt were primitives who wouldn't even know
which fork to use at a dinner party. They were ignorant
of the finer things in life.
Sam Brentwood was entitled to lead whatever life
he chose. It was none of her business what he
did. So why should she care? She had to admit that she
was a little bit interested in the man, if for no other
reason than to provide relief from the tedium of the
journey.
Well, it was probably wrong to look back over
her shoulder at the kind of life she had led in the
past Spring was in the air at last," andwiththe
approach of a new season she could at least admire
the scenery.
As the little train made its way through the forests of
central New York, approaching Syracuse, the
trail was narrow, just wide enough for the wagons. The
early spring wind filled the woods with the smells of the
salt springs that were the basis of the growing prosperity
of the town of Syracuse. These had been the hunting
grounds of the Onondaga Indians for many generations.
The low-hanging tree branches forced
Claudia to remove her hat, and she had
to concentrate on her driving, keeping the horses on
a tight rein. Her wagon had fallen a short
distance behind the others. Ouincy napped on the boards
beside her, tired after spending several hours keeping up
with Brentwood's horse.
Suddenly one of the bay geldings shied violently.
Ouincy was on his feet in an instant, his ears
erect, a low growl emanating from deep within him.
Before Claudia could stop him the dog leaped to the
ground. Only a few feet away, she saw a
wild boar emerging
from the underbrush. It was a hideous-looking beast at
least three feet high and weighing more than two
hundred and fifty pounds, with tiny red eyes and
short, bristling hair. The shepherd was poised
to attack.
"Quincy! Come back here!"
Claudia was terrified. Her dog was no match for
an animal with the speed and power of the boar.
The dog paid no attention. The boar lowered its head
to charge. Claudia jumped to the ground. Somehow she
had to protect her pet.
The wild boar turned to face his new adversary.
Quincy pulled up short and began to bark,
the sound making the boar even more aware of its danger.
As Claudia looked into the small, evil eyes
she realized she had nothing to protect herself with, not
even a knife. She knew Quincy would attack for
her sake, but he'd be killed for his gallantry, and
she herself would be helpless.
Instead of charging, the boar began to inch slowly toward
Claudia, obviously hoping to draw near enough for a
final charge before the dog attacked him. For the first time
in her life Claudia was so frightened her mind went
blank. In trying to save her dog she'd condemned
them both to death.
All at once the boar charged. Two hundred and
fifty pounds of furious wild animal hurtled
toward Claudia. At that instant, a shot broke
the silence, and the boar seemed to rise several feet
into the air before crumpling to the ground, a bullet
hole in its chest. Quincy continued to growl, even
though the beast was dead.
For a moment, Claudia was so weak that she thought she
might faint, but she managed to compose herself.
Sam Brentwood approached her, his pistol still in
his hand. "Reckon we'll be eating roasted pig for
supper," he said in a calm voice.
Claudia's pride wouldn't permit her
to thank him in so many words. But perhaps she could show her
appreciation in some other way. "Under the
circumstances," she said, trying to match his casual
tone, "the least I can do is cook the meddal."
II Tonie Mell could cook supper, so could
she."
Sam grinned at the young woman, stroking Quincy's
head, quieting the dog. Nothing in his attitude
indicated that she had capitulated to him. "We'll
call an early halt for the day, then," he said.
"Wild pig needs a lot of roasting before it gets
tender enough to be tasty."
The man who joined the wagon train in the farm-
market town of Syracuse, Henry St. Clair,
was extraordinary. In his early thirties,
solidly built and so handsome he was almost pretty,
he wore clothes and boots tailor-made for him,
he slept in a real bed fastened to the floorboards
of his luxuriously appointed wagon and he carried
an expensive, English-made rifle, chased
silver scrollwork decorating its stock.
He'd read everything available about the explorations
of the Rocky Mountains during the past decade, and
he could discuss the customs of a dozen Indian nations
west of the Mississippi River, none of
whom he'd ever encountered. His larder was stocked with
smoked hams and ox tongues, barrels of beef in
brine and salt fish. And, to the astonishment of Sam
Brent- wood, he carried several cases of wine
he'd imported from France.
"My life was so dull," he said, offering his only
explanation for joining the caravan, "I wanted a
bit of . excitement."
Whip Holt was contemptuous of him, and scarcely
bothered to conceal his reaction. Sam Brentwood, as
always, kept his feelings to himself.
As a British agent with long experience in the arts
of espionage and sabotage, St. Clair bad
no doubt of his ability to create incidents that would
slow down the progress of the wagon train to a
crawl. He was particularly interested in the
special wagon, but he didn't want to act too
soon. The caravan was still too close to the cities
and Army depots, where precious supplies were
easy enough to replace.
First, he had to learn the identity of his ally, the
Russian agent. Methodically he went through the
group. Sam Brentwood? Impossible. Whip
Holt? Never. Tonie Mell, the girl who
acted and dressed like a man? Laughable.
All three were frontier dwellers, with boundless
faith in the future of the United States.
Abe Ellis? Perhaps, but he seemed too
ponderous, too slow a thinker. Agents, even those
hired by the Russians, had to be mentally alert.
Otto van Ayl was an unlikely candidate,
too, and his pretty wife was too young, too
inexperienced. Assuming the Russian
representative had already joined the caravan, which
wasn't necessarily the case, that left
Claudia Humphries. She was sophisticated,
alert, intelligent and certainly the most likely
prospect. She deserved cultivation, but an
experienced agent knew better than to move too
rapidly. Subtlety and caution always paid
dividends.
St. Clan: was polite to the Van Ayls and
courteous to
the guides and Tonie, but at mealtime he devoted
himself almost exclusively to Claudia. He took
delight in discussing Shakespeare's plays and
Milton's poetry with her, and he could quote long
passages from the Bible, reciting them with the dramatic
gusto of an actor.
Claudia felt at home with him at
once. He reminded her of professors she'd
known at Yale. He was a man of erudition and
refinement, and he added a new zest to the days on the
trail, no matter that he was a trifle effete.
But, she had no interest in
him
as a man. He rode behind her, and made a point of
helping her carry water without neglecting his own
duties of gathering firewood.
Claudia noted, however, that he wasn't assigned
to sentry duty on the nights when they made camp
far from any civilized community of consequence. This was
a duty that only Sam and Whip shared. Did they
lack confidence in Henry St. Clair? It was
typical of men accustomed to danger to trust only
their own kind. In any case, she didn't care.
Henry, with whom she was already on a first-name basis,
made the trip almost pleasant.
For example, he offered her delicacies from his
larder. Her own taste in food was simple, but she
took tok8tion portions so she wouldn't hurt his
feelings. Occasionally when he opened a small
bottle of wine at supper, she took a glass,
not because she really enjoyed the taste but because she could see
that her acceptance annoyed Sam
Brentwood.
"Even in my drinking days," Sam said one evening,
"I never could stomach that stuff."
"It's an acquired taste, I suppose,"
Henry replied politely, inhaling the aroma of his
wine.
Whip had almost nothing to say to the newcomer, and
Otto van Ayl seemed uncomfortable in his
presence, too. Cathy dutifully avoided him.
To Claudia's continuing distress, Cathy seemed
to have eyes only for Holt.
Going south from Syracuse, they made their way
into Pennsylvania, where they were scheduled to pick up
newcomers in the rolling hill country west of
Harrisr burg. It was the height of spring; trees
were budding and farmers were busily plowing, but Claudia
was bored by the long days of jolting along in the
wagon. Though her muscles were no longer sore, it
was always a relief to stop for the night.
When Whip announced that he would be leaving them at their
next stop, and going on alone, Claudia was
relieved. He and Cathy exchanged so many looks
at mealtime that Claudia found it difficult to pay
attention to the conversation Henry St. Clair
directed at her.
Sam wasn't familiar with this part of the country, and
Whip was ignorant, too. But their instincts seemed
unerring, and they always chose pleasant campsites.
One or the other would go into the woods, as did
Tonie, and come back with game. Or they caught
fish or bagged ducks and geese returning north
after the winter. Claudia had to concede that they were
skilled in the ways of the outdoors, but they were also
uncouth barbarians. Sam had saved her life,
to be sure, but that didn't mean she had to be friendly
with him.
Claudia was learning to appreciate fresh fish and
game. She was grateful for the hunting and fishing that
provided relief from the monotony of their staples:
flour, bacon, oatmeal and smoked ham, pickled
beef and salt fish.
On their second night in Pennyslvania they
stopped to make camp in a large clearing beside the
shore of a small lake. The water was warm enough for a
swim. The ladies had the privilege of going first,
and both Claudia and Cathy enjoyed the luxury of
soaking ill the water for a long time. Tonie, who
couldn't swim, bathed alone in a shallow area.
By the time they returned, the fire had been laid and
lighted. As the women retired to their
wagons to dress, the men trooped down to the water,
Quincy following along.
Impulsively, Claudia opened one of her leather
clothing boxes and changed into a frilly gown with
eyelet lace at the collars and cuffs.
Occasionally, she felt she owed it to herself to dress like
a lady in something fine and frivolous.
She emerged from her wagon to find Cathy and a
furious Tonie Mell tied together back to back
on the ground. Before she could scream for help, strong
hands grabbed her, a gag was stuffed into her mouth and
she, too, was thrown to the ground.
Knowing she was helpless she made no struggle, but
watched her captors carefully. There were five of
them and they were thorough, two standing guard with, drawn
pistols on the path that led to the lake as the other
three went through the wagons. AH were rough, bearded
men in shapeless linsey-woolsey. They searched the
wagons quickly, displaying the expertise of
professional thieves.
They knew better than to take either firearms or
horses-both hanging offenses, and they paid no
attention to clothing or other personal belongings.
Claudia, her mind functioning in spite of her
fear, could only pray that Quincy, who was
with the men, would sense the danger and bark an alarm.
"I got something, Ned," one of the quintet called.
"This here wagon has
a
false bottom."
Two of his companions joined him without delay, and in
a few moments Claudia heard the sound of
floorboards being wrenched up. There were muted shouts
of delight, and soon the three men emerged, stuffing
gold coins into their pockets. They had found even more
than they hoped for, and all five men lost no time in
leaving.
"Thanks for the hospitality, girls," one of them
said. "We'd show you some real lovin', but we got
to clear out before your menfolk come back." Then they
vanished into the forest.
Claudia tried to free herself, to work the gag out of
her mouth. Her failure only increased her
frenzy. The wait for the men's return seemed
interminable, and she had no way of judging whether
five minutes or a quarter of an hour passed before
Quincy came running into the clearing, then raced
back toward the lake, barking furiously.
Sam Brentwood was first to arrive, running quickly in
spite of his stiff hip. He took one
look at the women, then hastily slashed their bonds
and removed the gags.
Cathy was weeping hysterically. Claudia didn't
wait to be questioned as the men crowded around her.
"We've been robbed by five men. They took off that
way." She pointed toward the woods. "They found the
false floor in Otto's wagon and stole a lot
of money."
Otto van Ayl ran to his wagon. When he
saw what had happened, his face went deathly
pale. "I had four thousand dollars hidden away,"
he said, his voice shaking. "I can't tell how much
they took."
"Were the men mounted?" Sam asked.
"They had to be." Tonie's anger made her
inarticulate.
"They may have left their horses somewhere else,"
Claudia added, "because they left on foot."
Sam picked up his rifle. "Let's go," he said
to Whip. "We'll start off on foot, and come back
for our horses only if we have to. No,
Tonie! You stay here!"
"I'm coming with you," Henry St. Clair said. He
ran to his wagon to get his expensive English
rifle.
Sam and Whip were somewhat surprised, but wasted no
time arguing with him. They expected no real help from
him, but saw no point in trying to stop him. They
rushed to the woods. Henry followed them at a run.
Claudia made no attempt to recall Quincy,
who had followed Sam Brentwood. She tried
to console Cathy and Otto, who sat on a fallen
log, dazed, his trembling hands covering his face.
Sam Brentwood had taken the lead, with Quincy
at his heels. There was just enough daylight left so he
could read signs that were invisible to most men. A
broken twig here, a footprint on matted grass
there, told him all he needed to know. He moved so
swiftly that Henry St. Clair, bringing up the
rear, had to hurry.
Henry noted that his companions moved quietly as
they moved forward through the woods, and he tried
to emulate them, but the task was too much for him. In
spite of his long experience as an agent, the deep
forests of America demanded special techniques.
Twigs snapped under his feet, and once he
tripped on a hidden tree root, causing Whip
Holt to glare at him over his shoulder. He was doing
his best, St. Clair reflected, and they shouldn't
expect more than that.
Daylight gradually faded, but Sam seemed to have
night vision that was extraordinary, and kept on the
trail. Sometimes he paused, crouched low and placed
his ear to the ground. Then he nodded, sprang to his
feet and started forward again, the arthritis in his hip
causing him no noticeable difficulty.
Henry assumed he could hear the robbers'
footfalls on the earth and marveled at the man's
talents. Some day, he thought, he'd have to persuade
Brentwood to teach him the trick.
"We're gaining," Sam said in a low voice after
one such pause. After his next halt he merely
pointed through the trees. Whip nodded. Both men
cocked their rifles and Holt unwound his
ever-present bullwhip from his waist. Henry moved
forward warily,
doing
his utmost to make no noise. When a low growl was
heard from Quincy, Sam put a hand on the dog's
head, and the animal appeared to understand, becoming
silent.
Sam and Whip seemed to communicate silently.
Sam and Quincy began to make a circle on the
left and Holt did the same on the right. In the
dark St. Clair could see that the dog's
ears were erect; the robbers couldn't be far ahead.
St. Clair himself appeared to have been forgotten.
Uncertain which of the two men to follow, he walked
forward in a straight line.
It was so dark that he almost stumbled on the robbers before
he realized how close they were. They had paused
to rest briefly in a small clearing. Three of them
were sitting on the ground, as the two others leaned against
a tree. It occurred to St. Clair that his
companions might be using him as a decoy, although he
couldn't understand how they could have planned it without
talking. The robbers, realizing a stranger had
blundered into their midst, cocked their weapons.
Henry froze.
Then the bullwhip sang through the air and wrapped itself
around one man, pinning his arms to his sides and
causing him to drop his pistol, as he screamed in
pain. He was jerked off his feet.
One of his companions caught sight of Whip Holt
and raised his pistol, intending to shoot him. But
Henry St. Clair came to life, his rifle
spoke, and the man dropped to the ground. Sam
Brentwood fired at almost the same moment, and a
third robber staggered and fell.
The remaining two men raised their hands above
their heads.
"Drop your guns!" Sam called, coming into the
clearing, a snarling Quincy beside him.
The brief struggle was ended. Two of the robbers were
dead, the other three apprehended. Sam tied their
hands behind their backs. Otto van Ayl's money was
safe.
"There's a town up ahead," Holt said. "I
reckon we can turn these vermin over to the constables there
and
let the undertaker come back for the bodies of their
friends."
The three men were marched forward, Quincy staying
close, ready to pounce if one of them tried
to escape.
Sam clapped St. Clair on the shoulder and said,
"You did all right."
IV
After the abortive robbery, Henry St. Clair
enjoyed a new status. Sam Brentwood and Whip
Holt accepted him as an equal, Otto van
Ayl was grateful to him and sought his friendship, and
Cathy became less shy in his presence. There was a
significant change, too, in his relations with
Claudia Humphries. More
self-confident, less inclined to quote from the
classics, he openly paid court to her. Her
feelings toward him were unchanged, but she accepted his
attentions. They helped to pass the time around the
campfire.
Henry told them something of his background. "As a
boy," he said, "I was sickly and spent most of
my time reading. Then, as I grew older, I began
to spend more time out of doors. I'm a good swimmer,
if I do say so. I've hunted in Scotland and the
Black Forest of Germany, and I fancy I'm not
too bad a shot."
"Plenty good enough to take over from me," Sam
told him. "Tomorrow you can go out and bag our supper for
us."
Otto van Ayl had counted and recounted his money
before replacing it under the false flooring of his
wagon. Sam still thought he was making a mistake.
"Your fortune will be safer," he said, "if you pack
it in a saddlebag and put it with your other belongings.
That way it won't be so obvious. Or let me
carry it in the special wagon for you."
Claudia was forced to agree with him. "That's true,
Otto," she said. "It didn't take those robbers
long to find that double flooring. Other people may
notice it, too, and get curious."
But Otto stubbornly rejected their advice.
"If you folks just keep your mouths shut, I'll have
no problems. It was bad luck that the thieves found
my hiding place, but it won't happen again. I'm
going to build me a fine house and buy a dozen
head of cattle when we get to the Oregon country.
I can't take any chances of losing my money along
the way."
After awhile, they spoke no more of it.
Late one afternoon, when they halted for the night, Henry
surprised Claudia by inviting her to go with him while
he hunted. Sam promptly intervened. "She'd
tear her clothes to shreds on brambles," he said.
"If she wants, we'll cure the hides of the
next couple of deer we shoot, and she can make
herself some proper hunting clothes. Meantime she'll
need to learn how to shoot."
The idea of handling firearms, much less becoming a
proficient shot, hadn't occurred to Claudia.
But she had
a reason for accepting the challenge, and she couldn't
help looking at Tonie Mell, who was standing
nearby.
Then Tonie made that challenge
irresistible by laughing. Her meaning was obvious: it was
ludicrous to think that the great lady could be taught how
to shoot.
Claudia stiffened at the sound of that laugh, color
flooding her face. Who did that half-girl,
half-boy think she was, anyway? "I take it
you're amused, Mrs. Mell," she said, her New
England disaccent flatter than ever.
Tonic's temper flared, too. She
realized
it was dangerous to make an open enemy of anyone in
the caravan. She knew she'd be wise to call as
little attention to herself as possible. All the same, she
had conceived an intense dislike for this woman who wore
fancy clothes, made up her face and put on
airs. Claudia Humphries had never been
openly condescending to her, but the woman seemed to go out
of her way to treat Sam Brentwood with a
remoteness that verged on contempt. And here he was,
making up to her.
"Mrs. Humphries," Tonie said in a Western
drawl even thicker than usual, "some folks can do
things that other folks can't. It's a wise woman
who knows her own place."
Sam Brentwood observed the two women
in astonishment. Even the debonair Henry St.
Clair was surprised by the depth of feeling they both
showed. Neither man understood why there should be bad
blood between them, but Henry promised himself
to remember it. Such hostility might turn out
to-be useful.
"What is my place, Mrs. Mell?"
Claudia demanded coldly.
Tonie's slow shrug was insulting.
Claudia turned quickly to Sam. "I very much
appreciate your offer, Mr. Brentwood."
Tonie's smile broadened.
Sam knew he was caught in the middle of a tug-
of-war between these two females. He wished he was
back in the Rocky Mountains, stalking an elk.
Women were beyond him. Claudia was so high-class he
never knew quite what she was thinking, and although he felt
far more at home with Tonie, she was far more complex
than he'd imagined any one woman could be.
"I assume," Claudia said, "that you'll teach me
how to shoot."
It had been the farthest thing from Sam's mind. As
wagonmaster he had only tried to prevent a
greenhorn from going hunting with Henry Still Clair,
who should have known better than to ask her in the
first place. Now, there was no graceful way to back
out. Claudia was prickly enough already, and he knew
he'd have his hands full even if he found some
excuse to evade the responsibility she was thrusting
at him.
"Sure, ma'am," he said, trying to express an
enthusiasm he was far from feeling.
She realized he was less than happy. "When may
I have my first lesson?"
"Right now, while Henry and Tonie here go off
to find our supper."
Henry departed on foot, and Tonie rode off on
her gelding without so much as a backward glance.
Sam led Claudia to a secluded spot, some
distance from the camp. There he explained how his rifle
functioned. Then he taught her the way to hold it.
"Always keep it snug against your shoulder so the
recoil doesn't knock you down," he said.
"Take your time sighting and, when you fire, be sure
you squeeze the trigger. Never jerk it."
He placed a pine cone on the stump of a fallen
tree, moved a hundred feet away from it and showed
her how to load the rifle, then told her to shoot
Claudia sighted the cone down the long barrel,
braced herself and squeezed the trigger. The
explosion deafened her momentarily, and the acrid odor
of burned gunpowder made her cough. What caused
her the most chagrin, however, was the realization that the
pine cone was still intact "I want to try again," she
said grimly.
Sam had thought it likely that she'd lose interest
after firing one shot, and he was impressed by her
determination. He showed her how to clean the rifle and
reload.
After six shots she stfll hadn't hit the cone.
"That target's too small," she said.
He took the weapon from her, reloaded with
practiced ease and raised the rifle to his
shoulder. Then he fired, and the pine cone was gone.
"If you can do it, so can I!" Claudia said
angrily.
She was a real hellion, he thought. "I reckon
you've had enough for one lesson," he said. "You're not
afraid of firearms any more, and that's progress."
"I want to shoot again tomorrow," Claudia said.
He had underestimated her determination. Now she
probably wouldn't be satisfied until she became
an expert shot.8She was more complicated than she
seemed. Though she was pretty, spoiled and
bad-tempered, there was more to her than that.
Whip Holt announced at breakfast the next
morning that he was taking leave of the company immediately.
"Fve got me a hankering for the taste of elk
liver," he said, "and the closest place I'll get
any is the Rockies, so I'll be on my way.
I'll see you next year in Missouri."
As he shook hands with each of them in turn,
Claudia was almost sorry to see him leave. He was
quiet and unassuming, although it was evident that he could
be violent when the occasion demanded. But he was a lot
less abrasive than Sam.
"Be careful, Mr. van Ayl," Whip said
to Otto before turning to Cathy.
Their fingertips barely touched.
Claudia saw the sheen in her sister's eyes, and
hoped no one else-least of all Otto-was aware
of it. It was plain that Cathy had fallen in love.
"Take care of yourself, ma'am," Whip said.
"I'll be counting the days and months till we meet
again."
Claudia realized that he loved her. She felt
sorry for both of them. Otto van Ayl didn't
know what it meant to love anyone.
"Good-bye, Mr. Holt," Cathy said, her
voice so low it was almost inaudible.
"Don't take too many risks while you're off
by yourself."
"I'll do my best, ma'am," Whip said, and
walked to his horse. Sam joined him for a final,
private word.
Then Cathy became furiously busy cleaning the
breakfast dishes in the water Claudia had brought
her. She didn't look up from her work until
Whip Holt was gone.
Before they could break camp a new arrival
unexpectedly joined them. In a small wagon
drawn by a team of tired horses, he'd been
trying for several days to catch up with the train. Today,
he'd been traveling since long before daybreak.
At first glance Terence Malcolm wasn't much of
an addition, and his story only confirmed his
appearance. He was twenty years old, he said, and
suifering from consumption. His doctor had told him
he'd probably die within the year. So he'd sold
his small property and answered the advertisement,
because he wanted to see something of the West before he died
and maybe even enjoy a share of adventure.
Claudia liked the expression in his eyes, and she
was upset when Sam told the newcomer he'd take
his admission under advisement.
As they began to break camp she approached the
wagonmaster.
"You can't turn that boy away," she said. "It would
be cruel."
Sam could barely restrain his anger. "Ma'am,"
he said, "I don't practice cruelty for its
own sake. We're going to be joined by a great many people
in the next couple of weeks, and it'll be hard enough
to get them all working together. We can't afford to be
slowed down by a boy who's suifering from consumption.
It's my duty to think of everybody else."
"Mr. Malcolm can't be aSo weak as he
looks," she replied. "Not if he's been alone
on the road trying to catch up with us. Give him a
chance, at least. There'll be time enough to drop him later
on."
Sam held his tongue and agreed. It was easier
than arguing.
Terence Malcolm was waiting for Claudia when she
returned to her wagon. "I couldn't help hearing
what you said," he told her, brushing his sandy-blond
hair from his bright, watery eyes, "and I'm mighty
grateful to you."
""Take your place in the line behind me," she said.
"We don't have far to go today, because we're
meeting some people from Pennsylvania and New Jersey.
If you feel you're too tired to go on, just let me
know. I'll find an excuse to stop for an hour or
two."
Young Malcolm shook his head. "There's no way
Fm going to drop out," he said, "not after all the
weeks of planning and all the trouble I've gone through
to get this far. I'm going to keep going if I have
to pull my own wagon."
Claudia knew then that her original estimate had
been right. "I know you'll make out fine," she said.
"That's why I spoke up for you the way I did."
His quick grin told her she had won his friendship.
Sam Brentwood had to chuckle to himself when members
of the company spoke of the Pennsylvania "mountains"
in the vicinity of Harrisburg. Mountains, to him,
meant the towering, snow-capped Rockies, some of them
so high that, probably, no man had yet
climbed them. AD the same, he had to admit that the
Pennsylvania terrain was ragged, and people who'd always
lived on flat land had a right to call such high
hills mountains.
The air had become balmier, though the nights were still
chilly, and the brown grass of winter had vanished
almost overnight, to be replaced by a
delicate carpet of pale green that grew deeper
each day. And the maple, oak and elm trees were in
full leaf.
Spring was Sam's favorite season of the year. In
spring, the whole world seemed to come alive.
Wilderness creatures began to stir, moving
swiftly through the underbrush. Fish were running again in
swift- flowing streams, and flights of birds
appeared overhead each day, heading north.
Sam was somewhat surprised to discover that Claudia
Humphries, too, was sensitive to the changing
season. He had convinced himself that the "great lady" was
too absorbed in herself to be conscious of her
surroundings. But that wasn't true. She was proving
herself amazingly alert to the wonders of nature.
Sam had always assumed that only those thoroughly
familiar with the oi doors could appreciate such
beauty.
Claudia was scontradictory he couldn't understand
her. She was a snob, yet she went out of her way
to be kind and genuinely friendly to people who would've been
beneath her notice if she'd been living in a city.
And it was just possible he was even getting used to her
manner of dressing and her use of cosmetics. He
had to admit that she was attractive.
Secretly, he enjoyed the way she looked.
More important, she was neither flighty nor a
flirt. He'd been wrong to conclude that she was like his
mother. In all honesty he bad to admit that he had
only the vaguest recollections of the woman who'd
walked out on him and his father.
She certainly had the ability to startle him. What
exactly had prompted her sudden desire to learn
how to shoot? Though he was still leery of her because her
tongue was so sharp, he was willing to grant that she could
make a mighty fine mate for the man who tamed her.
Not that Sam wanted to be that man. He preferred a
quiet, uncomplicated existence.
Having ridden through Harrisburg on his eastward
journey he elected to give the place a wide
berth now because he knew it was too cramped to allow the
wagons easy passage. Avoid complications of
all kinds, he told himself.
In mid-afternoon they arrived at an open field, where
eight wagons were already camped. Some had been
waiting several weeks for the arrival of the company, and the
veterans of the train were greeted with cheers.
Sam smiled to himself when he saw the greenhorns"
lack of organization. Their wagons were scattered
all over the field, facing different
directions. He'd teach them new procedures,
beginning this very night.
There would now be fourteen wagons in the company, and a
number of children, a very respectable train. Hereafter,
they'd form a circle at the end of each day's
ride, making them more secure in case robbers tried
to isolate a single wagon. Later, after the train
crossed the Missouri River, the circle would be
essential to protect the company from Indian
attacks. It was wise to teach the new travelers the
right way to do things from the very beginning.
The cooking fires would be built inside the circle
every evening. And after nightfall, no one would be
permitted to wander beyond its circumference. The safety
of each individual had to be the primary concern of the
wagonmaster.
The addition of children to the company changed the whole
nature of the adventure. Their sense of excitement
raised the spirits of the adults. But the children made
Sam's job more complicated. Wagon-train living
was an experiment in cooperation. Even the children had
tasks and responsibilities, and keeping out from
underfoot was one of them.
Teaching them, Sam quickly discovered that his own patience
was limited. He was, after all, thirty-
nine years old. He had spent much of his life
alone. But to his surprise, Claudia got
along well with the children, teaching them and assigning
chores, which they did without complaint.
Eventually, when the company was big enough, the work
horses and the few personal mounts would graze only
within the circle. That way, no animals would stray.
Now daily life was more complicated. The wagon
train stretched in a line several hundred yards
long. Sam was unable to both lead the column and
ride up and down its length, and until some of the
newcomers proved themselves he knew of only one
solution.
Because the distances between communities would increase as they
moved westward, and because the wagons would have to cross
open country in the absence of roads, Sam felt it
his duty to form the vanguard and lead the group. Someone
else, would have to be monitor, and Sam knew of no
one except Tome Mell who was competent.
True, she was only a woman, but few men anywhere
could equal her skill as a rider. She had a quick
eye and in an emergency she was a sure shot. One
of the newcomers could drive her wagon while she
spent each day on the back of her horse, going up
and down the line.
A wagon from Philadelphia had brought him
laudanum and other needed medical supplies from the
Army Medical Corps warehouse there. He stored
these essentials himself in the special wagon,
unwilling to entrust anyone else with the task.
Tonie Mell was delighted with her promotion to the
post of line monitor, and to an extent her
pleasure was genuine. At the same time, however, her
burden of guilt became heavier. If Sam had enough
faith in her to make her responsible for the safety
of the line, she knew she couldn't betray his trust
She'd simply have to find other ways to slow the
westward progress of the caravan.
The addition of the newcomers deeply disturbed her.
She was still waiting for the British agent to reveal him-
or herself. As nearly as she could judge, none of her
earlier companions was a foreign spy, but she dreaded
the arrival of each new wagon.
Tonie had procrastinated repeatedly, performing no
acts of sabotage. Because she lacked experience the
Russian Legation had agreed not to require
written communications from her. As far as the
chargi d'affaires
knew, she was following his orders.
But once the British agent discovered who
she was, her situation would change. Then, if she
failed to do what was expected of her, he'd complain
to his superiors, and when that information was forwarded to the
Russians, her parents would never be allowed to leave
St. Petersburg, unless it was to go to Siberia.
The very idea made Tonie shudder. She tried
to picture her mother and father, but she could only see them
in broad outline. Her aunt had brought her to the
United States when she was four years old, and she
found it difficult to fill in her parents'
portraits; they always took on the likenesses of
her aunt and uncle.
But that didn't prevent her from shedding secret tears
for the mother and father she scarcely knew. It was enough for her
that they were eager to come to America. Their future was in
her hands, and if she failed to do the bidding of the
vicious
Cheka,
they might end their days instead in the frozen wastelands
of Siberia. The thought tormented her constantly.
But the arrival of the newcomers had a far different
effect on Henry St. Clair. Until now
he'd been biding his time; it would have been too
dangerous to act within such a tiny company. Now he
had more room to maneuver. Soon he
planned that the train would be beset by seemingly
natural "accidents." Soon his real work could
begin.
Henry hoped to discover his Russian colleague
among the newcomers. After discussing Europe and the
world with Claudia Humphries, giving her plenty
of possible openings, he'd decided that she wasn't
the representative of St. Petersburg. He'd
enjoyed her company, to be sure, but he wasn't
along for the sake of pleasure. He'd much prefer
to be watching a theatrical performance at Drury
Lane or sitting in his favorite London
tavern, drinking ale with a buxom blonde.
Not that the Russian spy would make any real
contribution to his work, Henry thought. But he wanted
to keep an eye on whoever it might be. He
wasn't allowing himself to forget that the Russian was
actually his rival, no matter how many friendly
messages were exchanged between the British and
Russian foreign ministries. Henry had no
intention of doing anything that would help the Russians
to gain possession of the Oregon territory. If this
mission was successful, he'd be given a secure
post at headquarters, and remain in London for the
rest of his days.
For their part, Otto and Cathy found it easy enough
to meet the newcomers and become acquainted with them.
But it was far more difficult for Claudia, a woman
on her own, to mingle with unmarried male members of the
company. So she stayed in the vicinity of her own
wagon without giving them the wrong impression, hoping
that Sam Brentwood would find the time to give her
another lesson in marksmanship before the day ended.
After awhile, it was obvious that Sam was too busy
to spare any time for her. So she borrowed Henry
St. Clair's handsome rifle, accepted the gift of
twenty-five rounds of ammunition from his seemingly
inexhaustible supply and went off alone to the nearby
woods. She had to smile to herself when she saw some
of the newcomers watching her. It was bad enough, she
thought, that Tonie Mell swaggered around the camp in
men's buckskins, a pistol in her belt. The
sight of a woman hi a silk gown carrying a
rifle might convince these people that they were joining a
company of Amazons.
Claudia was indifferent to their opinions. She
intended to become an expert shot and make Tonie
stop smirking at her.
She set up a target, measured off thirty
paces and then went to work. It was heartening
to see that she was gradually improving, and she was
sufficiently encouraged to try all the harder.
When she returned to the camp it was time to fetch
water. She was mildly surprised when Terence
Malcolm joined her.
"There are too many of us now," he said, "for one
person to do it alone, so I'll be helping you
regularly. Sam Brentwood gave us a choice
and that's what I chose to do. I'm stronger than you
think. You'll see."
That evening several of the new women helped Cathy
prepare supper for the enlarged company. After eating,
others helped clean the dishes and cutlery in pots
of hot water. For the first time the company seemed like a
caravan bound for far places.
The next morning, fourteen hooped canvas tops
bulged. The special wagon was located in the
center
of the column for security. The owners of each wagon
made final checks to make certain nothing was left
behind.
Tonie Mell, beginning her new duties as
monitor, rode her gelding slowly from the front
of the line to the rear. She could tell at a glance
whether harnesses were secure, and whether the
canvas side flaps were properly held down
to keep out the dust She also made sure there were no
obstacles on the road beneath wagons that might break
axles or damage wheels.
When she reached the end of the line, assured that all was
well, she drew her pistol and fired it into the air.
That was the signal that Sam Brentwood was waiting
for. His stallion started off at a slow walk on the
road that led west across the Appalachian Mountains.
Then, one by one the wagons behind him began to move.
The dust in their wake was enough to make both women and men
tie bandanas around their heads.
Sam Brentwood heard the reassuring cacophony
behind him. Harnesses jingled, the steady plodding of
horses' hooves made a pleasant sound, and into it
were blended the rattle of wheels and the creaking of
boards. He grinned. Each wagon seemed
to whisper, "Oregon, Oregon, Oregon." He
had waited a long time for this train to form, and the
frustrations of the early part of the journey were forgotten.
He was glad he'd accepted the assignment
Tonie rode up to report that all was well, before
doubling back on her rounds.
The wagon train was under way. The weather was
ideal. The temperature in the mountains was
cool, but during the morning the sun grew hot. Men
rolled up their shirtsleeves, women discarded their
shawls and the entire company enjoyed the warmth of the
sun.
Nature had been cooperative, rain falling
only at night. Sam was glad to hear it as he
slept, because it laid the dust. But he knew the day
was coming when the weather wouldn't be so considerate.
They headed across Pennsylvania toward
Pittsburgh, at the western end of the state. There were
. fewer farms here, and more large tracts of forests and
uninhabited land. The isolation and grandeur of the
wilderness was visible for the first time, even though they were still
traveling through parts of the United States considered
civilized.
It took time to sort out the personalities of the
newcomers, but one family in particular drew
Claudia's attention. lames Caldwell was a
burly, middle-aged farmer who had sold his
property and gathered together the last of his possessions
to make this long journey. Dressed in worn
linsey-woolsey, he was taciturn and withdrawn, not
taking part in general conversations. All day he sat
silently behind his team and as soon as he ate his
evening meal he withdrew inside his wagon.
Lena Caldwell, however, was all that he was not. The
contrast between them was startling. Slender and tiny, with
stringy, dark hair, she would have been attractive
had she looked less pallid. But she was always
cheerful and always willing to help, even though she
carried a small baby on her hip. She appeared
to be no
more than eighteen or nineteen, and the difference between her
age and her husband's reminded Claudia of her own
sister's sad situation.
One day, after she and Terence had returned to camp
with the water-a task that required each of them to make
four trips to the bank of the river- Claudia saw
Cathy and Lena Caldwell chatting together as they
cleaned the fish and placed them into frying pans. The
two women had become increasingly friendly.
On an impulse she joined them, stopping to admire
Lena's baby, who was wrapped in a blanket and
sleeping soundly on the grass. "The fishermen are
having good luck today," she said. "Whatever the
hunters bring in can be saved for tomorrow."
"Otto won't like that," Cathy said. "You know how
he hates fish."
"It's the same in our family," Lena said.
"Then your husbands will have to be less
particular," Claudia said. "As the train grows
we'll have to eat whatever we get."
The younger girls exchanged glances.
"It's all right to tell her," Cathy said. "She's
my sister. You can trust her."
Lena sighed. "Well, it won't be long before
everybody knows. I don't have a husband."
Claudia was startled.
"James Caldwell is my father," the girl said.
"The reason we're making this trip is to get away
from home and go where nobody knows us. Pa says that
I-I disgraced our family name."
"Now, don't you start that again, Lena," Cathy said,
patting her new friend on the shoulder. "You're not an
abandoned woman. I don't care what your father
says." She turned to her sister. "Lena was in
love with a boy who got scared and ran off when he
learned she was pregnant."
"Having Lenore is wonderful, no matter what
Pa says," Lena raised her head defiantly.
"Of course it is," Claudia said, though she
privately thought the girl had been foolish.
"It's just as well you've come with us. You can make a
fresh start for yourself in the Oregon country."
Terence had come up behind her. "I brought some
extra water," he said, placing two buckets on
the ground.
Claudia wondered if he'd overheard the
conversation. Oh, well, there was no real harm done.
As Lena herself had said, everyone on the wagon train
would soon know that she was the mother of an illegitimate
child.
At the end of each day's journey, Tonie Mell
continued to ride off alone, after finishing her
monitoring duties, sometimes to allow her gelding
to canter, sometimes to hunt for game. So when the
newcomers saw her go off by herself one day about a
week after they joined the caravan, they thought no more of
it than did the others.
But today Tonic's purpose was different. She'd
taken the precaution of tightening her breastband under her
buckskins, and borrowing Terence Malcolm's
broad- brimmed hat-without his knowledge. After taking the
road to the west, she put the hat on. She had
finally made up her mind to follow the instructions
given her by the Imperial Russian
chargt d'affaires
in Washington. She had no choice.
According to Sam Brentwood's map, a small town
lay four or five miles ahead, and the
caravan should reach it the following day. Tonie rode
into the town at dusk and found the place she sought, a
small tavern. After steeling herself she sauntered
inside. Several local farmers and a couple of
merchants in black suits were drinking at the bar.
She took a place at the end near the farmers, then
lowered her voice as best she could in order to disguise
it. She ordered a mug of beer.
The men glanced at her as they chatted, apparently
accepting her as a boy. Her ruse was successful-so
far.
As she sipped her beer, a drink she loathed, one
of the farmers struck up a conversation with her, which she'd
hoped would happen. "You come from around here, sonny?"
Tonie shook her head. "I'm goin' to visit the
Apple- bys, this side of Harrisburg," she
said, speaking as roughly as she could in order to conceal
her soprano voice.
The man had not heard of the Applebys, which was
understandable, because no such people existed, but his curiosity was
satisfied.
"Are the roads clear thataway?" Tonie asked.
"Far as I know," the man said. "I ain't heard of
no rockslides."
"Then I ought to be all right. Less'n I
come across that wagon train."
"What wagon train?"
"The one that's aimin' to reach Oregon," Tonie
said, her heart pounding. "Ain't you read about it?"
The farmer nodded. "How come you don't want to see
"em?"
Tonie pretended amazement. "Teez, I thought
everybody knew." She had the drinkers" complete
attention now. She lowered her voice to a
near-whisper, feeling as though she might be sick
to her stomach, and said, "I figgered everybody in
Pennsylvania knew about that wagon train. They
got the smallpox. Three or four cases."
Tonie paid for her beer, took another token
swallow and then hurried away, her legs unsteady.
She made a wide detour around the town before heading
back to camp. She had succeeded in doing
precisely as she had planned, but her perfidy
made her feel ill and feverish. She went
straight to her own wagon. She certainly couldn't
eat a bite of food tonight.
Only when the others went to the campfire for supper
did Tonie remember she still had Terence
Malcolm's hat. She made her way to his
wagon, making sure not to be seen, and
returned it Then she sneaked back to her own
wagon, threw herself down on the mattress and wished
she were dead.
Cathy van Ayl, the first to notice her absence from
the campfire, went off to investigate. She
returned with the news that Tonie felt sick.
Henry St. Clair volunteered to take her
place as monitor, and Cathy duly informed the
invalid.
For Tonie, the night was interminable. Sleep was
imbleaje
possible. She tossed fitfully on her
mattress, wide awake and miserable.
When she appeared the next morning for a token
breakfast of bread and tea, the others couldn't help
staring. For the first time since joining the caravan, she was
wearing a dress, put on because she wanted to take
no chances that anyone in the town ahead might
recognize her.
Sam Brentwood seemed especially struck by the
girl's appearance, Claudia noted. And she
admitted to herself, grudgingly, that a dress showed off
Tonie's slender figure to very good advantage.
Her waist was so tiny a man could span it with his two
hands, and Claudia was annoyed because Sam
looked as though he'd enjoy being that man. It was
absurd the way men who should have known better went
sniffing around girls with supple figures. Well,
Sam's lack of judgment indicated to Claudia that
his taste was poor, and he was welcome to Tonie
Mell.
Henry St. Clair decided to use one of his own
horses for his monitor duty, so after breakfast
Tonie returned to her wagon. As she'd done
early on in the journey, she held her gelding on
a long lead after climbing onto her board.
Before the train got under way, Hester Browne, a
Ettle girl of eleven, raced up to Tonie from
her family's wagon farther back in line. The,
sight of the child cheered Tonie somewhat. Hester was
wearing a pair of breeches.
"Please, ma'am," the child said, "seeing as how yon
aren't riding your horse today, I wonder if I could
ride him."
Tonie weighed the request. "Do you know how
to ride?"
Hester nodded. "I do it pretty good."
"Well, all right-provided I keep hold of this
lead, so he and you don't take off across the country
on your own."
At that moment Henry came along, monitoring the
line. He dismounted and lifted Hester into the gelding's
saddle.
Tonie placed a large scarf over her head, then
used a smaller one as a mask. In spite of her
precautions to disguise herself, she still felt
heartsick. She had committed an act of treason
against the United States. Even if nothing untoward
happened as a result of the lie she'd told, nothing
could erase that stain from her conscience.
When the vanguard reached the crest of a heavily
wooded hill, Sam could see the town in a valley
ahead. Suddenly, a large party of men appeared out
of the woods, blocking the road. Their attire
indicated that most were farmers. All of them were armed,
some with rifles and pitchforks, while a few carried
flintlocks that appeared to be relics of the War of
Independence.
Their aggressive hostility and display "of weapons
caused Sam to lay his rifle quietly across Ms
saddle and loosen the pistols he carried in his belt
The caravan was forced to halt, and Henry Still Clair
rode up to the head of the column. Other men joined
Sam Brentwood, too. Several had the presence
of mind to bring their weapons.
Tonie wondered if it would be possible to avoid
bloodshed.
"You folks ain't goin" through this town," the leader
of the townspeople shouted. "Find yourselves another
route."
Sam remained calm, as he always did in a time of
crisis. "Why can't we go through?"
"You know damn well, mister!"
"Not unless you tell us," Sam said reasonably.
"Because of the smallpox you got in them wagons!" The
leader was angry, and several of the men brandished their
rifles and flintlocks.
Sam Brentwood's smile was placating. "I
don't know where you heard such rubbish. No one in this
company has smallpox."
"We knew you'd lie about it!"
"Inspect the wagons for yourselves," Sam suggested.
Several of the locals laughed harshly.
"Not us!" the leader shouted. "Now go back where you
came from!"
The closest alternate road was fifty miles
away. In order to reach it across the mountains, Sam
knew, he'd be forced to double back for several days.
In all, he'd lose at least a week and a half.
Sam knew he had no choice. He had
to lead the caravan through the town.
"Friends," he said, his manner still amiable but with the ring of
metal in his voice, "I told you the truth just now,
no matter what you choose to believe. Now I'll
tell you something else. We're going to use this road
and pass through your town. We won't tarry there, you can
depend on that, but we're going through."
"The hell you are!" the leader shouted.
One man became excited and accidentally discharged his
flintlock, shooting it into the air.
Tonie's gelding, already skittish because of the
unfamiliar rider reared high. Hester Browne,
who was unprepared for the horse's sudden move, was
thrown to the ground. She screamed.
Several people raced toward the fallen girl, but
Claudia Humphries was the first to get there.
"Don't touch her," she said. "She seems to have
broken her arm. Somebody fetch her some brandywine,
quickly. And bring me some cloth and some strong,
straight Sticks."
Hester was still crying. Even the appearance of her
frightened mother, who tried to soothe her, didn't silence
the injured child.
James Caldwell appeared with a flask, and
Caudia forced the child to swallow from it. Then,
as Tonie tore strips from a cotton petticoat
she had hastily removed, someone handed Claudia the
sticks.
Taking a deep breath, Claudia straightened
Hester's broken arm, and with Tonie's help she
bound it, the splints holding it straight and firm.
Hester's mother fed her more brandywine and then, as the
girl's screams subsided, her father carried her
back to their wagon.
Hester's mother tried to thank Claudia, who shrugged
off the expressions of gratitude. She had become
expert in setting broken limbs when her late
husband had fallen during his drinking bouts.
Tonie Mell felt sick. She alone was
responsible for, the accident, and she knew she'd
hear the little girl's screams of pain as long as she
lived.
Someone hurried to report what had happened to Sam
Brentwood.
"A little girl was thrown from a horse as a result
of that shot," Sam told the men in front of him,
when the excitement died down. "Her arm is broken.
But I don't aim to allow any more injuries.
To anyone. Henry," he directed, "ride over
yonder."
Henry St. Clair obediently moved off toward the
woods, halting at Sam's gesture after going about
twenty paces.
"Do you have a penny, Henry?" Sam asked. "Good.
Throw it into the air, high as you can."
Henry St. Clair, thoroughly mystified, obeyed
Sam's instructions without question.
In a smooth, effortless motion, Sam plucked a
pistol from his belt and, scarcely seeming to take
aim, fired it as the coin reached its apex in the
air.
The penny was deflected in the direction of the
locals, and one of them picked it up. He showed it
to his neighbors in astonished silence. The coin was
bent double. No one there had ever seen such
marksmanship.
"We've lost enough time today," Sam said casually,
reloading his pistol. "I reckon we'll be on
our way before we lose any more." Slowly, he
began to ride forward, replacing the pistol in his
belt and gripping his rifle. The other members of the
company raced back to their wagons, as Henry
monitored the line. The column began to move.
The sullen townspeople continued to block the road,
eyeing each other uneasily. Sam's
smile fading, he raised his rifle. Before he could
point it, however, the
ranks of the locals broke, and they-scattered into the
woods on both sides of the road.
The train rolled on in a silence broken only by the
familiar sounds of horses' hooves, creaking
leather and rattling wheels.
Tonie Mell was exhausted. Thanks to Sam's
courage, skill and knowledge of men, no one had been
killed. Yet she was responsible for little Hester's
accident, and she would never forgive herself- But at least
her attempt to sabotage the wagon train had ended
in failure, and for that she was grateful. If the
chargf d'affaires
of the Russian Legation ever learned of the incident,
he would know that at least she had tried.
V
As the wagon train made its way across the mountains
to Pittsburgh, a series of accidents took
place, severely slowing the progress of the
expedition. First a wheel fell off a wagon. By the
time it was repaired and put back into place a
half-day was lost. Then two work horses went
lame, and a halt had to be called for thirty-six
hours before the animals recovered
sufficiently to travel.
The following day, during a sudden, unexpected rain
squall, a second wagon lost a wheel. Soon
thereafter another broke its rear axle. This
vehicle, which the owner had constructed himself, was of an
unconventional size, so none of the spares in the
special wagon fit it, making it necessary for several
men to go to the nearest town, twenty miles away,
to purchase the part
Sam Brentwood was heard to express the belief that
the company was suffering from a streak of exceptionally bad
luck, and most people agreed with him. Tonie
Mel! suspected that the "accidents" were being
produced by deliberate sabotage. If she was
right, the British agent must now be a member of the
group. Still deeply depressed by the incident that had
resulted in Hester Browne's broken arm,
Tonie played a guessing game, trying
to determine the unknown spy's identity.
The task proved impossible, and she soon realized
its futility. Certainly no member of the expedition
could know that she'd been forced into the service of the
Imperial Russian government. And even if
someone learned she had been born in St.
Petersburg, there was only a remote
possibility that a link could be established between her
and the
Cheka,
which was putting pressure on her. Why should the
British saboteur be any easier to recognize?
All she could do, Tonie decided, was keep her
eyes open and hope she might see the British
spy at work. What she would do if she recognized
him, she didn't yet know. The idea of joining
forces revolted her, yet she couldn't expose him
to Sam Brentwood without compromising herself.
Nevertheless she made up her mind to remain close
to the camp, and refused an invitation to join a hunting
party while the caravan waited for the crippled wagon
to be repaired.
Ordinarily Sam Brentwood would have gone hunting
on his own, a function he continued to perform
regularly. But he was so disgusted that he was willing
to let others do the job for him, staying behind to take
charge of repairing the damaged wagon. He was
finding the repeated delays intolerable.
Claudia was delighted to find him at liberty.
She
wanted to show him how much her marksmanship was
improving. "I'm not quite ready for a contest with
you," she said, "but I think you'll be surprised by how
well I can handle a rifle now."
Sam had nothing better to occupy his time at the moment
so he agreed to watch her shoot, but his mind was
elsewhere as they walked to a stand of trees some distance
from the train. "If I believed in supersitions,"
he said, "I'd begin to suspect a jinx has been
laid on us."
"When this many people are traveling together," she replied,
"accidents are bound to happen."
"Then I hate to think what will happen in Ohio,
Indiana and Illinois when we pick up new people.
We'll be a year behind schedule just getting to the
Missouri River."
She had to admit he was conscientious. "We
didn't have any problems until recently," she
said. "They'll soon clear up."
"I hope yeu're right." He handed her his rifle,
powder horn and bullet pouch. "Do you think you're
good enough to hit any part of that tree branch that's almost
touching the ground?"
"We'll soon see." She loaded the weapon,
reminding herself that it was heavier than Henry's and had
a stronger recoil. Bracing herself, she took aim
and fired. The branch, some five inches in
diameter, cracked and sagged to the ground.
Sam was pleased. "Not half bad," he-said, "for a
woman."
Claudia was furious. She stalked back to her
wagon without saying another word.
He couldn't understand why she was annoyed. But
Mel! suspected that the "accidents" were being
produced by deliberate sabotage. If she was
right, the British agent must now be a member of the
group. Still deeply depressed by the incident that had
resulted in Hester Browne's broken arm,
Tonie played a guessing game, trying
to determine the unknown spy's identity.
The task proved impossible, and she soon realized
its futility. Certainly no member of the expedition
could know that she'd been forced into the service of the
Imperial Russian government. And even if
someone learned she had been born in St.
Petersburg, there was only a remote
possibility that a link could be established between her
and the
Cheka,
which was putting pressure on her. Why should the
British saboteur be any easier to recognize?
All she could do, Tonie decided, was
keep her eyes open and hope she might see the
British spy at work. What she would do if she
recognized him, she didn't yet know. The idea
of joining forces revolted her, yet she couldn't
expose him to Sam Brentwood without compromising
herself.
Nevertheless she made up her mind to remain dose to the
camp, and refused an invitation to join a hunting
party while the caravan waited for the crippled wagon
to be repaired.
Ordinarily Sam Brentwood would have gone hunting
on his own, a function he continued to perform
regularly. But he was so disgusted that he was willing
to let others do the job for him, staying behind to take
charge of repairing the damaged wagon. He was
rinding the repeated delays intolerable.
Claudia was delighted to find him at liberty.
She
wanted to show him how much her marksmanship was
improving. "I'm not quite ready for a contest with you," she
said, "but I think you'll be surprised by how well
I can handle a rifle now."
Sam had nothing better to occupy his time at the moment
so he agreed to watch her shoot, but his mind was
elsewhere as they walked to a stand of trees
some distance from the train. "If I believed in
supersitions," he said, "I'd begin to suspect a
jinx has been laid on us."
"When this many people are traveling together," she replied,
"accidents are bound to happen."
"Then I hate to think what will happen in Ohio,
Indiana and Illinois when we pick up new people.
We'll be a year behind schedule just getting to the
Missouri River."
She had to admit he was conscientious. "We
didn't have any problems until recently," she
said. "They'll soon clear up."
"I hope ysu're right." He handed her his rifle,
powder horn and bullet pouch. "Do you think you're
good enough to hit any part of that tree branch that's almost
touching the ground?"
"We'll soon see." She loaded the weapon,
reminding herself that it was heavier than Henry's and had
a stronger recoil. Bracing herself, she took aim
and fired. The branch, some five inches in
diameter, cracked and sagged to the ground.
Sam was pleased. "Not half bad," he-said, "for a
woman."
Claudia was furious. She stalked back to her
wagon without saying another word.
He couldn't understand why she was annoyed. But
soon he had other troubles on his mind. He
discovered a leak in the roof of the supply wagon, which
had been added to the train at the stop near
Harrisburg. The previous night's rain had
ruined two hundred pounds of flour. The company would
have to do without bread until they reached Pittsburgh
where more flour could be purchased.
That evening, Claudia was more receptive than
usual to Henry St. Clair's attentions. After
supper they sat together near the fire. He chuckled
as he pointed to a pair of shadows on the far side
of the dying flames. "Young Terence and the Caldwell
girl seem to have discovered each other."
Claudia had also become aware of the growing friendship
between the young couple. She nodded.
"On a journey like this there's bound to be romance in the
air," Henry said. "I'm surprised you haven't
been swept off your feet."
"I don't sweep all that easily," she
replied, her tone dry.
"I'm delighted, my dear, but also puzzled. The more
I see of you the more I believe that you'll never be
happy scratching for an existence on the Oregon
frontier."
"Oh?" She hadn't flirted with anyone for a long
time. "What do you think would make me happy?"
"The best way I could answer that question would be to show you
London. The theaters, the excitement, the inns and
taverns where they serve most elegant suppers.
You'd love relaxing in a boat on the Serpentine
and riding in a carriage down Pall
Mall-gorgeously gowned, of course, as befits
your beauty."
Had a less sophisticated man been speaking,
Claudia would have assumed he was proposing
marriage, or leading up to it. But she couldn't
decide whether Henry was just being complimentary or if
he meant his remarks in a personal way.
"Then there's Paris," he said, gazing dreamily
into the fire. "The monarchy under that middle-class
buffoon, King Louis Philippe, is a wretched
piece of business, but the city is quite lively. Do
you happen to speak French?"
"I've never had the opportunity to learn."
"A tutor could remedy that defect in a very short
time," he said. "You're so clever you could master any
language."
Although Claudia enjoyed his flattery, she knew
she had to call a halt before their relationship
became too complicated. "For the present," she said,
"I have no need for French lessons. I wager not
many people in Pittsburgh speak French these days."
When the axle was repaired the journey was resumed.
Terence Malcolm surprised Lena Caldwell
by asking her and her baby to ride with him that day. She
was too apprehensive to accept, but her father, who'd
overheard the invitation, drew her aside.
"Do it," he said emphatically.
"You don't mind, Pa?" Lena was wide-eyed.
"Mind? There aren't many respectable men who'd as
much as spit at a harlot who's saddled with a bastard
brat."
Lena told Terence she'd changed her mind.
After making her baby comfortable on a nest of
blankets inside the wagon, Terence gravely
helped
Lena to a place beside him on the boards. For more than
an hour they rode in silence, unmindful of the dust
Jacked up by the wagons in the line ahead of them.
He seemed preoccupied and nervous, frequently
pushing back the lock of sandy hair that fell forward
over his eyes. Finally, he spoke.
"I guess you've heard," he said, "that I don't
expect to live very long."
"Cathy told me. I'm sorry, Terence."
"You needn't be. I don't feel sick, and
I've been having the best time I ever had. By the time
the train reaches Oregon, I won't be around, but
that can't be helped. I'd sure like to see the country
out there. Failing that, I'd like to do what I can to help
other people."
"That's a wonderful attitude."
He flushed beneath his tan. "I don't mean to sound
noble, Lena. I'm much too practical for that.
Anyway, I've been thinking about you and Lenore."
"What about us?" she said.
"Don't get riled up now. Just hear me out before you
put up any objections. I've had this notion,
see? Suppose comj suppose-you and I got
married and I got the preacher to make out adoption
papers for Lenore, too. That way, when I'm
gone, you'd be a genuine widow, and the baby would have a
proper last name."
Tears came to Lena's eyes. "I think you're
crazy."
"I told you not to interrupt." Terence was stern. "I
don't want you to get the wrong notion. There's
nothing personal in my suggestion."
Lena laughed through her tears. "Nothing
personal ... to a marriage proposal?"
"I just don't want you to think I'm making you this
offer because I-I want to fool around with you." He
swallowed. "Things would be just like they are right now."
"You mean... we wouldn't really be married?"
"Not that way," Terence said. "It would be legal because
the preacher would see to that, but that's where we'd stop. And
when I die, you'd just be a widow in name, not hi
fact."
The girl was silent for a long time. "Why are you
Offering me this?"
"I've already told you." He sounded cross. "It
won't hurt me any, and I'll be doing something for
somebody who has a problem, a problem I can
solve easier than falling off this wagon."
Lena took a handkerchief from the belt of her
homespun dress and blew her nose hard.
"You're sweet, Terry," she said, "and so generous
I can believe again that there are good people in this world."
"It just makes sense, that's all," he said,
embarrassed by her praise.
"But I can't accept." Lena was firm.
"Blamed if I can see why not. One of these days
IT1 be in a roadside grave. So somebody
may as well get some good out of my life
while I'm still here."
"It wouldn't be fair to you."
"Different folks have different ideas about fairness,"
Terence said. "Let me know if you change your
mind."
They spent the rest of the day companionably,
exchanging only occasional, casual comments. Lena
was overwhelmed by his offer, but she had no intention of
mentioning it to anyone. There was already too much gossip
about her on the wagon train.
When a halt was called that afternoon she attended to her
baby, then went off to join the women, as though nothing
unusual had happened. Terence, at peace within himself
for having spoken his mind, went off with Claudia
to fetch water, then helped gather wood to make the
fire.
After supper, when the dishes were done, Lena went
to her father's wagon, carrying the sleeping Lenore.
She was surprised to find James Caldwell still
awake, waiting up for her.
"You've been avoiding me tonight," he said. She
knew from his tone that he had been drinking. He kept
his whiskey hidden in his tool kit.
"There's no difference between tonight and any other night,
Pa." She tucked the baby into her
makeshift crib.
"Damnation girl! What did Terence Malcolm
want to talk to you about?"
Almost without thinking, Lena told her father the story of the
strange proposal.
"The Lord be praised," Caldwell said. "I
thanked him, Pa, but I couldn't accept. It
wouldn't be right"
Her father stared at her for only a moment. Then he
slapped her so hard across the face that she staggered and
fell to the floor of the wagon. Slowly,
deliberately, he removed his leather belt and
stood over her. "I ain't whipped ydu since the
day you came home and told me you was having that little
bastard," he said. "If you forgot the feel of leather
on your hide, I'll remind you."
The girl was terrified. "Please don't beat me,
Pa! Please!"
He drew back his arm, then struck her with all his
might across the shoulders.
Lena knew better than to cry out. If she
screamed, arousing the people in nearby wagons, her father
might well kill her before anyone could come to her
assistance. He was a demon when aroused, unable
to control his emotions. Cowering and trying
to crawl beyond his reach, her one thought was to protect her
baby, no matter how badly he whipped her.
Caldwell comraised his arm to strike her again, then
thought better of it. If she looked too battered in
the morning other members of the company might take
notice of her. condition, and he, of course, would be
blamed. "You goddamn harlot," he said. "He
offers you the chance of a lifetime and you muff it. That young
idiot asks you to marry him, and you refuse. He's
crazy, so his reasons don't matter. He's a
puny little son of a bitch, but that ain't important,
either. You finally got a chance to be respectable-and
you're going to take it. If I have to beat you within an
inch of your life, you're going to do what I say."
In her fear, Lena was willing to give in. "Leave
me alone, Pa. I'll talk to Terry tomorrow-unless
you hit me one more time."
He dropped his belt, took another drink from his
bottle and then retired to his bed.
After a sleepless night, Lena was waiting for Terence
in the morning when he emerged from his own cramped
wagon to help Claudia fetch water.
He stopped in surprise when he saw her strained
face.
"I-I didn't get much rest last
night," she said, "thinking over our talk. If it's
still agreeable with you, Terry, I-I accept your
offer."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said, smiling
broadly. "Now you're being sensible."
"I'm-very much obliged to you," Lena said.
They announced their news at breakfast, to the great
delight of the entire company. It would be the train's
first wedding. Sam told them they'd have no trouble
finding a clergyman when they reached Pittsburgh,
where they'd be joined by another group.
Only Claudia, who had seen their remote,
impersonal encounter outside Terence's wagon,
suspected the real reason for the marriage, but she
kept her thoughts to herself. It was enough that Lena would
become an honest woman and give her baby a
proper name.
The Allegheny River, some fifty miles
northeast of Pittsburgh, had been swollen
by heavy spring rains when they reached it. And although the
floods had subsided somewhat, the river was still too
wide to be forded. So the caravan traveled south
along the banks of the river until they came to a
ferry.
They made a deal with the ferry owner. Sam
and several other men would swim the horses across the
river, and the wagons would be carried two at a time
on the ferry. The owner agreed. Such transactions
weren't unusual, and he charged them a reasonable
fee.
The horses crossed without incident under the expert
supervision of Sam, who remained in the water
astride his stallion, calming the more skittish
animals and keeping them in line. Quincy swam
tirelessly alongside, barking furiously whenever one
of the horses was inclined to turn back or drift
downstream.
Then it was the turn of the wagons. Family groups
went first. The wagons were hauled onto the ferry
two at a time and as they reached the west bank, they were
moved into place. The whole operation would take
several hours.
When the two bachelors, Henry St. Clair and
Terence Malcolm, made the crossing, St.
Clair's large wagon took up the better part
of the ferry, crowding Malcolm's near the broad
stern. Suddenly Malcolm shouted. As the
horrified onlookers watched, his wagon slid
slowly into the water and disappeared from sight.
In an effort not to lose the other wagon
too, the boatmen poled the ferry to the west bank and
unloaded it before returning to the middle of the river with
Terence and several volunteers, Sam among them.
"I don't believe there's any way to fish it out,"
the ferry owner said.
"I'm afraid you're right," Sam replied. They
looked down at the water, where some of the wagon's
contents were already being forced to the surface and propelled
downstream. "I'm sorry, Terry. The river is
just too deep."
Terence shrugged. "Except for my gun, what I
own isn't worth very much."
When Terence reached the west bank again, almost the
entire company rallied to him. He was besieged with
offers of spare clothing, food, cooking utensils and
other supplies. James Caldwell, somewhat
ungraciously, said his future son-in-law could
move into his wagon after the wedding, and several others
offered him shelter until that time. Lena was mute, and
very disturbed by the tragedy.
Now only the special wagon remained on the east
bank of the river, held until last because its bulk
would completely fill the ferry. Henry St.
Clair volunteered to recross the river in order
to help Abe Ellis with the bulky last
wagon. The assistance of one more person was needed, and
Tonie Mell volunteered.
They reached the far side without incident. The boatmen
rigged a pulley to haul the big wagon onto the
ferry. As Ellis and Henry pushed from behind,
Tonie guided the vehicle. Even the boatmen had
to strain in order to move the ungainly wagon
into place. At last, when the supply wagon was
finally aboard, the raft sank lower into the water, but
stayed afloat.
Blocks were placed at all eight wheels
to prevent them from slipping during the rough crossing, and
Abe Ellis helped the boatmen pole. The ferry
began to make its way slowly across the swollen,
swirling river.
Tonie had remained near the prow, watching the
progress of the raft. Suddenly it occurred to

her that if the contents of the big wagon shifted
position, the ferry's own balance might be disturbed.
She went quickly aft, intending to look inside the
unlocked vehicle to insure that all wasjvell
within.
Henry St. Clair didn't see her. He was
crouched beside a rear wheel, the bulk of the
wagon concealing
him
from the eyes of those who were waiting on the
west bank. He had already removed the blocks from
one wheel, and was carefully at work on another, when
Tonie Mell rounded a comer and saw him. What on
earth was he doing?
Suddenly, in that instant, Tonie knew that St.
Clair was the British agent.
Something inside her exploded. The outrage that
Henry was perpetrating made her ignore her own
troubles. She knew that if she stopped him, she'd be
severing the ties that bound her to the Russians. She'd
have to abandon hope that her parents would ever be given
visas to leave Russia, and she knew that they might
be sent to Siberia. But she knew that she had to perform
her duty, regardless of the consequences, and no matter
what might happen to her. If the special wagon
was lost in the river, the train would be held up for
months in Pittsburgh before it could be replaced.
If that happened, the expedition, for all practical
purposes, would have to be abandoned.
She was furious! Quietly, Tonie Mell
made a detour. She crept up behind Henry St.
Clan:, withdrawing her knife from her
belt.
"You bastard!" she said in a low, intense voice,
pressing the knife point hard against his back.
The interfering bitch! St. Clair knew he could
probably disarm the girl, but he also knew that" she
could fight-and scream. The boatmen and Abe Ellis
would be bound to hear the scuffle. Short of killing
her, there was no way he could silence the girl before she
cried out, and if she did, his perfidy would be
discovered.
Silently he cursed
this
headstrong young woman
from the frontier country for blundering into him at the worst
possible time, arousing her bloody patriotism.
"Are you trying to wreck the whole wagon train?"
Tonie said.
"You don't understand," Henry said, trying
frantically to find a plausible excuse for what he
was doing.
"I understand, all right," Tonie said, applying more
pressure with the knife. "Now put those blocks
back where they belong, and do it mighty quick.
Otherwise M kill you."
He knew she had the strength, the will and the
courage to carry out her threat. The point of the knife
was increasingly persuasive. He replaced the first
block.
"Now the other wheel," Tonie said, the knife at
his back.
Again he obeyed. He cursed his bad luck.
The perfect opportunity to dump the special
wagon overboard had been lost. Now he'd have
to content himself with minor sabotage until he got
another chance to deliver a crippling blow.
By the time the second set of blocks was moved back
into position, the ferry was drawing close to shore.
Tonie removed the knife from St. Clair's
back.
"I want to have a private talk with you tonight,"
Henry said, standing up. He knew he had to silence
her before she could reveal what she'd learned about him.
And if he had to, he was even prepared to murder
her.
Tonie saw the death threat in his eyes, and knew
she had to proceed carefully. "All right," she said.
"I wasn't doing what you thought I was doing," he
said. "I was just moving the blocks to make them se
cure. They had slipped. I'll tell you all about
it tonight." Maybe she'd buy his story.
Tonie Mell was cagey. "Fail enough," she
said. She hoped she sounded convincing.
When the feny reached land on the west bank, lines were
thrown ashore and the raft was made fast Willing hands
dragged the special wagon ashore.
As though he didn't have a care in the world, Henry
St. Clair went ashore and sauntered off to his
own wagon with cool aplomb.
Angrily Tonie watched him, forced to admire his
play-acting. Then she went ashore to search for Sam
Brentwood. It no longer mattered that her parents
would never be able to come to America. She would grieve
later, she knew, but she couldn't worry about that now.
And she worried even less that she'd be forced
to expose her own treason.
"Sam," she said, when she'd found him, "I've
got to talk to you."
"Can't it wait?" He was trying to get the train
once again underway.
"No," she said. "I need to talk to you right away.
Privately."
Something hi her expression told Sam Brentwood
that her demand was not mere feminine whim. Tonie
knew enough not to needlessly interfere. Whatever was
troubling her had to be important.
Gesturing toward the woods, he started toward them.
Tonie almost had to run in order to keep up with his
long-legged pace.
Claudia, watching them go off together, was irri-
tated.
She
hadn't realized that the redhead was so brazen.
Obviously Sam Brentwood wasn't aware of
it, either. He was becoming mighty thick with her.
Well, Claudia thought, if he was going to make a
fool of himself over the girl, she had no intention of
stopping him.
A short distance into the woods, Sam halted and
turned to face Tonie Mell, his thumbs hooked
under his belt. "All right," he said, "what's the
problem?"
She took a deep breath. "I'll have to start at the
beginning," she said. "My real name is Antoinette
Melichev, not Tonie Mell, though that's what
I've been called since I was a baby. And
I'm not a missus. I've never been married
to anybody."
Tonie told
bin;
in detail about her meeting with the
chargf d'affaires
at the Imperial Russian Legation hi
Washington, holding back nothing.
Sam listened in silence. Not until she revealed
her smallpox hoax did ne try to speak.
"Wait till I'm done," she said. "I've found
out who the British agent is. You blame near lost
the special wagon in the river just now."
Then she told
him
what had happened on the ferry.
"And there you have it," Tonie said. "If you want
to send me off to jail for being a traitor, I
won't blame you. I'll even make a full
confession in writing to make it easier for you."
"You're going to keep your mouth shut," Sam said, his
voice firm and calm. "You're not going to repeat
one word of this to anybody, not ever."
Tonie looked at him in astonishment.
"You've more than repaid your debt to your conn
fey and to the wagon train," Sam said. "Andy
Jackson would kiss you if he knew what you've
done, and President Van Buren would give you a
medal-if they gave medals to ladies."
To Tonie Mell, Sam's words sounded
miraculous. Her relief was so great she had to lean
against the nearest tree to support herself, fighting
back the tears she considered alien to her nature.
"You're not going to send me to jail?" she asked, her
voice unexpectedly timid.
"I'm happy and proud that I know you," he said.
"And I hope you'll go all the way to the Pacific
with the wagon train. With women like you, no country in the
world is going to take the Oregon territory away
from us."
The tears came freely now, but Tonie was ashamed
of what she regarded as a display of weakness, and
tried to bunk them away.
Not wanting to embarrass her, Sam turned away
abruptly and started back to the clearing.
Tonie followed him and touched his arm. "What are you
going to do about Henry St. Clair?"
Sam squinted up at the sun. It was too late
to get the caravan restarted today, so he gave up the
idea. There were more important matters to be
settled. "I'm going to have me a little talk with Mr.
Henry St. Clair," he said.
"Ill come with you." Her reaction was spontaneous.
"You've done enough, Tonie." Sam was firm,
tolerating no argument. "You head back
to your wagon, and stay there till I say it's all
right to come out again." If the coming confrontation turned
nasty, he didn't
want it complicated by the presence of Tonie
Mell, no matter how resourceful she was.
Although she wanted to be present when he settled
accounts with Henry, Tonie Mell knew better
than to argue. Not even the roughest and most contrary of
mountain men would seek a showdown with Sam Brent-
wood. She started off toward her wagon.
"Thank you," he called softly.
And once again Tonie felt like weeping.
Sam watched her for a moment, and then the compassion in his
eyes vanished. Hitching up his buckskin trousers,
he looked around at the scene spread out before him.
Some of the horses had already been hitched to wagons,
and were being urged into line by their owners. There were worse
places to spend the night, but he wouldn't yet pass
the word that they were staying right here beside the river bank.
A far more urgent matter required his attention.
Sam started toward St. Clair's luxurious
wagon at the far side of the clearing, his gait
deceptively casual. As he walked, he
loosened the pistols in his belt. Ouincy, appearing
out of nowhere, wagged his tail furiously.
Sam bent down to pat the animal, as the dog
trotted beside him.
St. Clair's horses were still untethered and browsing
on the far side of his wagon. He himself was leaning
against the front of his vehicle, writing something down
in his journal.
At the sound of footsteps, Henry looked up, then
smiled when he saw the wagonmaster. "We did
well today," he said. "The river crossing could have
been unpleasant"
"I want a word with you about the crossing." Sam's
tone was blandly conversational.
"Of course." Henry snapped his fingers and Quincy
came to him. He began to stroke the dog.
"You and I have been friends, or so I thought." Sam's
manner had changed. There was now a hint of menace in
his voice. "And if there's one thing I hate, it's
the betrayal of a friendship."
Henry knew then that Tonie Mell had given him
away and that he could no longer serve Queen
Victoria as a member of this wagon train.
Thinking quickly but methodically, he weighed his
options, searching for the best means of escape.
Eventually, he'd get his vengeance from (he interfering
Tonie Mell, but he couldn't permit
himself to think about her right now. He had to concentrate
on saving his own skin.
"If you're accusing me of anything," he said,
stalling for time, "I have a right to know what it is."
"Glad to oblige you," Sam said. "Why did you
try to dump the special wagon into the river?"
"Who says I did?" Henry retorted, working
to perfect his escape plan.
Sam had no taste for a quarrel. "It's
possible," he said, "that you're on the payroll of
London." Not waiting for a reply, he reached for his
pistols.
Henry responded instantly, hurling his journal
into the wagonmaster's face.
Instinctively, Sam ducked.
Trained for a type of combat that no American
frontier guide or mountain man knew, Henry
struck swiftly. Before Sam could recover, Henry
tripped
him.
Sam fell to the ground.
As he fell, Henry hurried to the other side of his
wagon and leaped on a horse. Quincy, playing a
game, ran beside him, barking joyfully.
Furious because he'd allowed himself to be
tricked, Sam got up to give chase. But by this time
Henry was galloping toward the safety of the woods
beyond the clearing, the dog keeping pace with his horse.
Sam raised a pistol, took aim and then lowered it
again. Granted that he was a superb marksman; at this
distance, shooting at a fast-moving target, he was
afraid he would hit the dog.
Claudia, breathless and distraught, ran up to him,
concerned for the safety of Quincy. She called his name
repeatedly.
By the time the dog turned back, Henry St.
Clair. was just inside the woods. Sam raised his
pistol a second time, then lowered it again. Henry
St. Clair had vanished.
Quincy raced up to his mistress. "What
happened?" Claudia said. "I saw you and Henry
talking, then all of a sudden you were on the ground."
Grimly, Sam nodded. Rarely had any man
fooled Or beaten him, and he looked forward to his
next encounter with the British agent. That meeting would
be a fight to the finish-and he intended to win it
His expression was so forbidding that Claudia asked no
more questions. Not until now had she realized what
furies dwelt behind Sam Brentwood's placid
front. He could be a ruthless man, she
decided, quite capable of killing.
Sam was reluctant to satisfy her curiosity, and
would have preferred to keep silent. But she'd seen enough
to whet her appetite for more information, and he felt he
had to tell her something, if only to keep her
silent. The morale of the entire company would suffer
if people learned that a foreign agent had been living in
their midst-and trying to prevent Americans from
occupying the Oregon country.
"Claudia," he said, addressing her by her given
name for the first time, "I hope I can rely on you
to keep your mouth shut."
"Of course you can," she said.
"Only one other person knows what you're about to find
out. Come along." He entered Henry's
sumptuously furnished wagon, with Quincy at his
heels, as Claudia followed.
A small chest of drawers, made of carved
mahogany, stood at one side. A jar of ink and the
pile of papers on top indicated that it had also
been used as a desk. The drawers were locked, but
Sam used the blade of his knife to depress the
lock tongues to open them, and began to examine the
contents. Soon he handed her a box filled with
money.
"Count this," he said, continuing his search.
Claudia was shocked. There was more than one thousand
dollars in paper money inside the box, and another
four hundred in gold corns. Obviously Henry
St. Clair hadn't lacked for funds.
Sam unfolded a sheet of parchment. A coat of
arms was engraved at the top, and Claudia thought she
recognized it. "That looks suspiciously like the
official insignia of the British government," she
said in surprise. Frozen-faced, Sam nodded.
The message, writ
ten in the neat hand of a professional copyist, was
brief:
Upon the recent accession of Her Majesty to the
throne, she received the assurances of Lord Melbourne
that her government would make every effort to expand the
boundaries of her Empire. Queen Victoria
graciously consented to this course of action.
The first objective in North America is the
territory of Oregon, which will be incorporated
into Canada. His
All concerned will conduct themselves fa such a manner that
these goals will be obtained.
The signature was a scribble that couldn't be
deciphered.
"Who in blazes is Lord Melbourne?" Sam
demanded.
"The British Prime Minister," Claudia said,
shocked anew by the implications of the document.
"Henry St. Clair," Sam said, "is a
British spy."
Claudia was dumbfounded.
"No wonder we've had so many accidents," Sam
said. "It was Henry's job to prevent this wagon
tram from ever teaching the Oregon country." Clearly
Tonie had told him the truth,
"All his stories must have been lies," Claudia
said.
"When we get to Pittsburgh," Sam said,
"I'll send this document to President Van
Buren. Somebody in Washington City will
recognize the signature. And I'll also write
to Andy Jackson. Old Hickory never trusted the
British-and, by God, he was right."
"What will you do with this wagon?" Claudia was already
thinking in immediate, practical terms.
Sam thought briefly. Then he grinned at her.
"Terry Malcolm. I'm going to turn over St.
Clair's property to him, including the money. On
my own authority. He'll need to buy
another horse in Pittsburgh, and I reckon
he'll also want a rifle to replace the one that
went overboard. Beyond that, he'll have a tidy home
and a nest egg to start life as a married man."
Claudia clapped her hands in approval.
Sam sobered. "We're lucky we found out about
St. Clair this early. But you can wager a stack of
beaver hides that the British will try again."
"Perhaps when he hears about the spying, the President
will want to call the expedition off," Claudia said.
Sam's laugh was harsh. "There's no more chance of that
than there is of my giving up! This wagon train is
going to Oregon, come hell or high water!"
VI
Almost a century had passed since a retreating
French force had burned Fort Duquesne at the
"Forks of the Ohio," but the new
Pittsburgh-built at the confluence of the
Monongahela and Allegheny rivers, where they formed
the mighty Ohio-still had a frontier mentality.
Long the gateway to the West, it supported a
large population of boatmen familiar with the
wilderness. Coal and iron had been found in the
nearby hills, encouraging industry, and the residents
of Pittsburgh believed that no other city
in the United States held greater promise for the
future.
Pittsburgh was hurting, all the same, as was the
rest of the nation. Because of the Panic of 1837, banks
were closing, businesses were going bankrupt and the
ranks of the unemployed were increasing.
To many people, the promise of free land on the frontier
was the greatest hope of salvation. The disillusioned and the
jobless were moving to Illinois, Mis
souri and the Iowa country by the thousands, where they hoped
to create new lives for themselves.
So the presence of the wagon train created an
unusual stir in Pittsburgh. Five families
had already gathered in their wagons to await the arrival
of Sam Brentwood. And by the time the train departed,
its ranks were swollen by the addition of seventeen new
wagons. In spite of the many hazards to be faced
on the long trail, the lure of rich farm lands was
overpowering.
The day before the caravan was to depart, Lena
Caldwell and Terence Malcolm were married in a
modest church ceremony. Cathy van Ayl was
matron of honor, and Sam Brentwood stood up
with the groom. James Caldwell showed up drunk,
and later became even more intoxicated. The
bride and groom exchanged a light, token kiss,
and Claudia noted that both were flustered.
Lena and her baby moved at once into the luxurious
comwagon that had belonged to Henry St. Clair.
Terence, whose wardrobe had been enhanced by his
windfall from Henry St. Clair, surprised his
wife by spending some of Henry's money on several
new dresses for her, a warm coat for winter and a
new pair of shoes.
When they entered the wagon that night, Lena was
overwhelmed. "I never expected to live in any
place this pretty," she said.
"It belongs to us now," Terence said. "Sam
Brentwood said so.".
Stroking the expensive furniture, she gazed in
awe at the sturdy closets built into the sides.
She almost
wept at the iron skillets and pots, the
chinaware, mugs and eating utensils in the cupboard.
"I never dreamed I would be so rich," she
murmured.
"Neither did I." Terence was embarrassed, and quickly
changed the subject. "Yonder is the crib I
bought for Lenore, and there's your bed." He pointed
to a Slick mattress that boasted two
pillows at the top and was covered by blankets of the
finest wool.
Lena hesitated. "It's a grand bed," she said,
"plenty big enough for two."
"The baby can sleep with you, if you like," he said.
"Where will you sleep, Terry?"
"I'll show you what I've rigged up." He had
attached wooden pulleys to the center ceiling strut,
the mam support of the canvas cover, and when he
pulled a rope, a length of thick, bleached linen was
lowered, dividing the interior into two compartments.
"I'll roll up in my blanket on this side,"
he said.
"That doesn't... seem ... fair to you," Lena
said.
He shrugged. "It's a heap better than what I
had in my old wagon, I can tell you. Besides, it
doesn't much matter. It didn't seem right to buy
another mattress when I won't be around long enough
to get much use out of it."
Lena tried to express her gratitude for all he
was doing for her.
"Daytimes," he said, tugging at the rope and raising
the curtain, "well keep the inside open. That way
nobody else will guess about our . . .
private agreement. It's nobody else's
business, anyway."
"Oh, Terry," Lena said. "I'll mend your
clothes and
cook your food and wash your dishes. And if you'll
teach me how to control the horses, I'll relieve
you driving when you get too tired."
"Oh, I can go near all day without feeling an ache
in my bones," Terence said. "But I'll be glad for
your company any time you want to ride the boards with
me. Sometimes it gets a mite lonely out there and I
sure would enjoy your companionship, if you don't
mind too much."
"I give you my word I won't mind," Lena said.
He was the most extraordinary, self-effacing
person she'd ever known.
Although Pittsburgh had regarded itself as the first city
of the West, for the better part of a half-century, times
were changing. Few men in buckskin wandered around by the
waterfront nowadays and only rarely was an
Indian seen. But there were thousands who remembered the
old days, and young men still went into the hills to search for
herds of wild horses, although none had been
reported in the vicinity for more than a decade.
The caravan bound for Oregon was a
reminder of Pittsburgh's past. Senior
citizens remarked solemnly that they had never seen
its equal. Twenty-six wagons comprised the
train that passed slowly through the streets, and those
who'd been members of the expedition from its earliest
days knew that the reception being accorded them was
unique.
Citizens by the thousands lined the route to cheer
and wish the pioneers godspeed. -Young men on
horse-back
appointed themselves escorts. In some places the
crowds were so thick that fathers had to hold young children on
their shoulders so the boys and girls could watch the
extraordinary sight. The fife and drum corps
of a Veterans of the War of 1812 post turned the
ride through the city into an impromptu parade by forming
a vanguard, playing medleys of patriotic
airs.
Here and there women came forward to give the pioneers
cakes, smoked hams and loaves of freshly baked
bread. Several men from a tavern dumped a cask of
ale on the tailgate of a wagon, as the crowd
roared in approval.
Tonie Mell, resuming her duties as
monitor, moved up and down the line on
her gelding. The object of considerable attention, she
responded cheerfully, waving and smiling even when some
of the men shouted raucous comments.
Claudia Humphries, driving the lead wagon,
drew her share of comments, too. And by now she was able
to laugh at remarks that would have insulted her earlier.
She knew her clothes were too fancy, and she'd
purchased several lengths of cloth for new
dresses. She had learned that a ladylike
appearance took second place to practical
comfort.
Even the usually sober Sam Brentwood enjoyed the
spectacle that he and his charges were providing.
Spectators broke into applause when they saw
him appear, and he grinned until his jaws ached,
now and again raising his rifle hi salute.
To the spectators, the long, impressive wagon
train meant far more than a brief thrill. Farmers
and housewives, bankers and merchants, river
traders and industrialists realized that if the
pioneers actually reached
Oregon and managed to settle there, the dream of
extending the boundaries of the United States from the
Atlantic to the Pacific would at last come true.
Other settlers by the tens of thousands would
follow in the wagon tracks of these pioneers. A
vast new area would be opened to trade, and the raw
materials of the West would enrich the nation's
economy. To the farsighted this caravan was a symbol
of America's future. She would become one of the
greatest powers on earth, as Martia Van Buren
had said in his inaugural address. When the fife and
drum corps played "Columbia, the Gem of the
Ocean," fresh applause broke out. Then
gradually the crowds thinned, the musicians departed
after a final salute of ruffles and flourishes, and the
mounted escorts returned to the city. But the
excitement that Pittsburgh's rousing farewell
generated heartened everyone in the wagon train for a
long time to come.
The next few days on the trail were confusing. The
many newcomers, like those who had joined the caravan
earlier, had to learn what Sam liked to call "the
manners of the trail." Skill and practice were
needed to move a wagon into a circle at the end of the
day. Those who were unfamiliar with outdoor living had
to learn to distinguish between green and seasoned wood for the
making of the nightly fire. And women who'd grown
accustomed to using all the water they could draw from their
own wells were forced, overnight, to make do
with much less.
By far the most valuable addition to the party was Dr.
Robert Martin, an energetic and personable phy-
sician of about forty. He told Sam that his wife
had died recently, and in his heartbreak he wanted
to go west to start a new life.
His first patient was little Hester Browne. He
examined her mending arm thoroughly. Then he
congratulated Claudia on the job she had done and
asked her to assist him in any future surgery.
"With more than sixty of us now," Claudia said
to Sam, "we're fortunate to have a doctor along."
"Especially this one," he replied. "He not only
knows his profession, but he's a good, solid man-
somebody we can trust."
She asked
him
how he could know so soon.
"Hellfire," Sam said, "nine times out of ten you
can tell what a man is by looking into his eyes."
Claudia was revising her opinion of Sam
Brent- wood. She had thought him a boor, a
crude frontiersman who knew nothing about the world
or its people. Little by little, however, she was beginning
to appreciate the depth of his judgment.
Obviously he had been fooled by Henry St.
Clair, but so had everyone else in the wagon
tram. He couldn't be faulted for his failure
to recognize a shrewd operator as a foreign
spy. Claudia couldn't understand what he saw in
Tonie Mell, but she realized she might be
biased. He was entitled to seek the company of any
woman who appealed to
him.
What impressed her most was his quiet ability
to bring people with disparate backgrounds together, and make them
into a homogeneous whole. Never raising his voice,
never losing his temper, he encouraged and
prodded new arrivals into working and living together for the
common good. To the best of her knowledge, no one in the
caravan actively disliked him.
She should nave known, because of his closeness to Andrew
Jackson, that be was no ordinary man. She herself
had never been one of Old Hickory's
enthusiastic supporters, but she had always admitted
that he was a man of stature. Such a man wouldn't have
chosen an incompetent as nis friend.
It might be a problem to lower the barrier that stood between
them, and she wasn't even sure that she wanted it
lowered. Not that he was likely to develop a
personal interest in hef, of course, yet she
couldn't help wondering what she would do if he
actively paid court to her. Then she was irritated
with herself for thinking such things. Not only was Sam very
proper in all of his dealings with her, he spent much of
his free time chatting with Tonie Mell. They
spoke the same language and obviously had a
great deal in common. It was only natural
to assume that they had ignited a mutual spark.
Tonie was welcome to Sam if she wanted him.
The only reason she herself even wondered about him,
Claudia told herself, was because Sam Brentwood was
the only unmarried man in the wagon train with any
kind of magnetism.
Sam might insist that they were making good time, but it was
tiresome and it was slow. The changing scenery had little
appeal for Claudia. Too, she had very little in
common with most people in the train, and she was often bored.
It was that state of mind, she told herself firmly-but
without conviction-that was
basically responsible for her increasing concern with
Sam Brentwood.
The train rolled on, and each day the weather grew
warmer as summer approached. Duties were
redistributed. The new arrivals were
assigned to chores, and the veterans who had been on
the road for many weeks were gjven supervisory
positions. Cathy van Ayl and a woman who had
joined the company in Harrisburg were placed in charge
of the cooking. Terence Malcolm had proved so
useful and so eager to help that Sam made him a
special assistant, assigning him any
critical job that arose. Claudia was in charge
of the water brigade.
One of her new helpers became an admirer.
Chet Harris was fourteen, a rawboned boy who
watched her constantly, his eyes adoring. He forced
his three younger brothers to do their share of the work. She
appreciated his help and was amused by his
infatuation.
But she felt sorry for the mother of the boys. Emily
Harris was a widow, poverty-stricken, driven
by desperation to make the long journey across the continent
with her brood. Only because Chet assumed some of the
responsibilities of a man was she able to keep her
other sons under control.
"If I had my life to live again," she told
Claudia one evening after suppet, "I'd marry a
capon who couldn't give me any young'uns. There was
a time I didn't have a care in the world, but
that was so long ago I don't rightly remember how it
felt."
Sam was in undisputed command of the caravan, but as the
group moved westward along the Ohio River
he began to rely for assistance on an informal
council. Dr. Martin, always grave and courteous,
became Ms closest advisor, and to Claudia's
surprise she found that Sam frequently came
to her for help, too.
"I don't know much about women," he told her, "so
you understand better than I do how the ladies feel.
Take last night, for instance. Why were they ready
to spit at me for stopping neat those Mis?"
"Because they couldn't wash their clothes there without getting
soaked in the spray, of course. If we'd made
camp a half-mile farther downstream, it would have
been much more convenient."
"You're right, Doc," Sam said to the doctor.
"After this I'd better listen to her."
Another newcomer, also friendly with Sam, caused
Claudia some uneasiness. Baron Ernst von
Thalman was an Austrian nobleman hi his early
fifties-by far the most colorful member of the
party. His wagon, pulled by a matched team of four
magnificent horses, was the only
vehicle with hard sides and a hard top. It more
nearly resembled a traveling home on wheels
than a wagon. Always impeccably attired, wearing
polished boots and crisp linen, the Baron was
attended by a personal manservant named Schultz,
who slept in a corner of the wagon and seemed
to live for no purpose other than that of doing his
master's bidding.
The Baron's manners were extravagant. He not
only clicked his heels and bowed to everyone, but he
irritated Claudia immensely by kissing her hand
whenever they met. Although he said little, he spoke
perfect English with only a trace of an accent and
was always

smiling. It was obvious that he regarded the
adventure as a lark.
Claudia's unsettled anxieties about the Baron
grew. One evening, she decided to speak to Sam
Brentwood. He was eating with Dr. Martin some
distance from the fire, so she carried her plate of
fish, beans and freshly baked bread to the rock on
which they were sitting.
"I hope you don't mind if I join you," she
said,
It was obvious that neither man did.
"Mr. Brentwood," she said, "I believe you're
making a mistake with a certain man on the train and
it bothers me."
Sam's smile was ironic. "I reckon I'll
have to mend my ways, Mrs. Humphries."
"Don't laugh. We may have another spy hi our
midst. Baron von Thalman."
To her astonishment both the wagonmaster and the
physician whooped with laughter.
"You're mistaken, Mrs. Humphries," Dr.
Martin said. "Ernst von Thalman has a
distinguished record as a cavalry officer in the
Imperial Austrian Army. He commanded a
brigade for years."
"That doesn't prove he's not a spy,
Doctor!"
"It so happens that he fought beside the British at
Waterloo, and he dislikes them intensely. He
believes they've wrongly claimed all the credit
for beating Napoleon Bonaparte."
Sam mopped up the gravy on his plate with a chunk
of bread. "Put your mind at rest, Mrs.
Humphries. The Baron is a friend of Andy
Jackson and visited him at the
Hermitage a few weeks ago. In fact, he
came
straight to Pittsburgh from Tennessee-at Old
Hickory's suggestion. And he brought me a letter from
Andy, saying he thought we'd enjoy having the Baron
travel with us. Ernst von Thalman may be a
strange bird, but he's no spy!"
"I'm relieved to hear it." Claudia's manner
was frigid.
Dr. Martin, at least, understood her feeling of
humiliation. "I'm sure Mr. Brentwood
appreciates your caution," he told her. But
Sam was nonplussed when she glared at him.
Claudia had to concede thereafter that perhaps her fears had
been exaggerated. The Baron seemed to make himself
helpful hi many different ways. When the men went
fishing after the caravan halted each day, the Baron
accompanied the Harris boys. He also made
certain that they did their chores for their mother. He went
out of his way to be kind to Lena Malcolm. And one
night, when Terence was tending the fire and Lena was
cooking, Claudia found the Baron quietly
entertaining the baby, cooing at Lenore and making
faces.
The following Sunday she saw another
side of the good Baron's nature.
The caravan had halted for a day of rest on the
Sabbath. The wagons were grouped in a semicircle
near the banks of the Ohio, and the horses were grazing
on the lush grass hi the enclosure. That morning
Dr. Martin had read from the Bible for all who
wanted to attend services, and the company was relaxing
on a lazy afternoon. Men were mending harnesses and
repairing the canvas roofs of their wagons and women
were sewing. Those of the children who hadn't gone fishing were
playing a game of tag outside the circle of the
wagons.
Terence Malcolm, who seemed incapable of remaining
idle, was gathering firewood. Claudia, with nothing
better to occupy her time, sat on the upper of a
pair of boards that served as the back steps of the
Malcolm wagon, idly chatting with Lena and
Cathy. The baby was in her crib, napping, and
Lena was in a talkative mood.
"Is it true that the berries in Oregon are big
as melons?" she asked.
"I very much doubt it," Claudia said.
"That's what the Baron told me."
Claudia refrained from remarking that the Baron knew
no more about Oregon than anyone else, and
had-been teasing her. Lena was much more attractive
these days: she was gaining weight, and her face no
longer looked strained. Though she and Terence behaved
in an oddly formal way toward each other, the
marriage seemed good for her.
Then, all at once, the Sunday afternoon peace was
shattered. Eight roughly attired men, several of
them bearded and all armed with braces of long-barreled
pistols, rode into the enclosure. A single glance
was enough to confirm that their visit wasn't friendly, even
before they drew their pistols.
"Stay where you are, folks, and nobodyll get
hurt." The spokesman wore a high-crowned,
broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face. "Money and
jewelry won't do you any good where you're going, so
we'll do you the favor of taking them. Just rest easy
while the boys
here go from wagon to wagon. Anybody who acts up
will regret it!"
Claudia was outraged. "Lena," she whispered,
"sneak into your wagon and bring me Terry's rifle.
Quickly. His powder horn and ammunition, too."
Startled, Lena hesitated.
"Do as I say!"
Lena crept inside, unnoticed by the
intruders.
Three of the thieves dismounted and began to ransack the
nearest wagon.
Claudia had never fired Terence's new rifle.
But there was no opportunity to test it now. Thanking
the Almighty that it was already loaded, she raised it
to her shoulder, aimed at the leader on horseback and
fired.
The bullet passed through his hat, knocking it to the
ground. That brief diversion was all Sam
Brentwood and Baron von Thalman needed. At
opposite ends of the circle, they opened a
murderous crossfire. The Baron used two
rifles. His manservant reloaded one for him
while he used the other. But Sam needed no one's
help, and reloaded his long rifle with amazing
speed.
Before the robbers knew what was happening, two of their
number went down.
Claudia too, had managed to reload, and as she
raised the rifle to fire again she saw that the leader was
arming his pistol at her. But she was too angry to be
frightened. She squeezed the trigger as he fired at
her.
His horse, unnerved by the explosions,
sidestepped, and the man's bullet passed over
Claudia's head. But her own aim was true, and
she had the satisfaction of seeing the leader clutch his
shoulder. She watched the
spreading patch of blood on his shirt, horrified
by what she'd done.
Meantime Sam and the Baron were giving far better than
they received. Coolly ignoring the bullets that
whistled past their bodies, they kept up a steady
fire until six of the intruders were either dead or
injured and the last two raised their hands up over their
heads.
"Terry!" Sam called. "Take the Harris boy
with you and go get the sheriff. Tell him we've got
some customers for him."
Terence and Chet Harris galloped off.
Two of the intruders were dead and four others had been
wounded. The members of the wagon train had suffered
no casualties.
Lenore, awakened by the commotion, began to wail.
"Soothe your baby, Lena, and tell her everything's
all right," Claudia said. Then she began to feel
sick.
After the sheriff and his deputies arrived, to remove
the dead thieves in a cart and take the
others off to jail, the Baron came up
to Claudia, bowed low over her hand and invited her
back to his wagon for what he called "a little
celebration."
Not wanting to be alone with him, she tried to say no.
"I insist," Ernst von Thalman said, and offered
her his arm.
Because they had worked in tandem to overcome the robbers,
Claudia felt she couldn't refuse again.
Sam was seated at a small teakwood table in the
ornately furnished wagon, drinking tea. He
smiled as he raised his cup to her. "You won't
need many more lessons in marksmanship," he said.
"But your reload
ing is sloppy and far too slow. You should've
gotten off your second shot before the lobbei had a
chance to take aim at you."
Claudia's indignation was heightened by the knowledge that what
he said was true.
As she sat, the Baron held her chair, bowing again
before he took his own seat. His manservant brought
her a tiny silver cup filled with a clear,
strong-smelling liquid.
"Schnapps," the Baron told her. "A true
warrior's drink."
"I believe it's too strong," she said. "Sip it
or drink it down, as you will," he replied. "But I
assure you, Madame, that after what I've seen
today, no liquor on earth is too strong for you."
He raised his own cup.
Claudia took an experimental sip. She felt
she had to be polite.
Von Thalman applauded. "Bravo, Madame!
If you can ride as well as you shoot, I'd give
you command of a troop of my elite cavalry with no
questions asked."
His compliment was obviously sincere. Accepting it as
he meant it, she glowed.
"Sam," the Baron continued, "when we come to wilder
country we must take her hunting with us."
"Maybe," Sam said. "But her shooting today could be
a fluke. So maybe we'd better put her through
her paces on the practice range first."
Claudia had to exert all her will power to keep from
hurling the schnapps in "his face. She was
furious. Sam Brentwood lost no opportunity
to denigrate her, mock
her, hold her up to ridicule. She kept her
peace, however, partly because she didn't want to lose
her temper in the presence of the Baron, who
was still a stranger. Even more important, she
refused to give Brentwood the satisfaction of
knowing how he could infuriate her. Sam, however, was
far more sensitive to her changing moods than she
knew. He could almost feel her stiffen, although he had
no idea what had upset her, and when he glanced in
her direction she deliberately averted her gaze.
Then, shrugging almost imperceptibly, he looked at
the Baron.
Ernst von Thalman knew exactly why the young
lady was suddenly out of sorts. At first he wanted
to wait until later to explain" to Sam. But on
second thought he decided to see what amends he
eould offer right now, in the spirit of celebration.
"I'm sure Sam didn't intend his remark the
way you took it, Mrs. Humphries," he said.
There, the matter was in the open now, thought Claudia.
And she wasn't responsible. "Are you trying to say
that Mr. Brentwood was flattering me?" she said
coldly. "Mr. Brentwood makes it a
practice never, never to say anything pleasant to a
lady if he can possibly make an unkind
remark." "I do?" Sam was astonished.
Claudia continued to address the other man. "I'll
tell you a secret, Baron. Mr.
Brentwood can show great courage in dangerous
situations. But I believe he feels compelled
to tear down women for a very simple reason. He's
afraid of us."
Ernst von Thalman roared with laughter. There was just
enough truth, to the comment to give it a valid sting.
Sam felt the bite of her verbal lash, and color
rose to his face.
Qaudia knew she had scored, and was satisfied.
Taking a token sip of her drink, which was too strong
for her, she rose, demurely, and said she had
to return.
"I'll walk you back," Sam said. He had no
intention of allowing their dispute to-remain
unresolved,
"That won't be necessary," she replied sweetly. "I
know the way, and Fm sure no harm will come to me."
His temper soaring, Sam surprised himself by shouting.
"Damnation, woman, if I have a mind to walk a
few yards with you, that's blame well what I'm
going to do!"
Ernst von Thalman almost choked on his drink,
averting his face-in an effort to hide his laughter.
The Baron's amusement made Claudia smug.
"Really, Mr. Brentwood," she said,
"I don't care to make an issue of it. You're
bigger and stronger than I am, so there's no way I
can prevent you, is there?"
Now Sam was even angrier. Muttering something to the
Baron about returning in due time, he stomped out behind
the young woman.
The sun had been shining earlier, but now a late
spring rain was falling, which spoiled Claudia's
chance to confuse the man even more-by taking his arm.
Instead she walked rapidly in order not to be
soaked by the heavy downpour.
"You've got me all wrong," Sam said.
Qaudia was pleased. She continued to hold the upper
hand. She shrugged, the rise and fall of her shoulders
indicating that nothing could have meant less to her.
Limping along beside her, his arthritic hip aching
afresh, Sam fought the urge to grab her shoulders and
shake some sense into her.
When they reached Claudia's wagon, she decided
to be generous. "If you wish," she said, "you may come
in with me."
He grunted, aware that she was placing him at a
disadvantage. At the same time, it was foolish
to stand in the rain, arguing.
Instead of lighting the lamp or a candle,
Claudia rolled up the canvas on one side of the
wagon, just enough to let a little light in but keep the rain
out. Sam did the same on the other side of the
wagon.
Claudia seated herself on a leather clothing box,
her manner as regal as though she was entertaining in a
grand New Haven parlor. She gestured at the
opposite box.
Sam, however, preferred to remain standing. He knew
he was on the defensive. "I didn't mean to hurt
your feelings," he said.
"You didn't," she lied.
"Or insult you."
Claudia noted how rigid he had become. She
knew how difficult it must be for such a proud,
stubborn man to offer her an apology. All at
once the game she was playing lost its savor, and
she softened. "It seems to me," she said, "that when people
spend so much of their time together they become much more
intense than if they lived in a city and only met
occasionally." Sam knew nothing about city living, but
he understood what she meant, and nodded.
"Maybe both of us are guilty of making too much
out of nothing," Oaudia said and then hesitated. It
was very difficult for her to back down, too,
but she refused to let him make the more generous
gesture. "Perhaps I've been looking for slights
where none were intended."
"Believe me, they weren't." Her gentleness disarmed
him.
"Apparently you and I grate on each other, Mr.
Brentwood. But since we're going to be traveling
together all the way to Independence, Missouri, unless
I can find some way to leave the train before then, we
really should try to be friends."
"You bet, ma'am." He found himself hoping she
wouldn't give up the journey, astonished by his own
reaction.
Impulsively she held out her hand to him. Never
before had a woman offered Sam the hand of friendship, and
he responded quickly, without even thinking.
As their hands touched Claudia felt herself weaken.
She thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her. Then
he gained control of himself, and her relief was mingled
with a strange sense of lingering regret that he hadn't
lifted her to her feet and taken her in his arms.
Sam felt the same magnetic current, and was
stunned by it. Claudia's smile was unexpectedly
tremulous.
As he left the wagon, Sam discovered it
was cold sweat, not ram, that soaked his buckskin
shirt
Otto van Ayl had been in a foul mood for
days, and his wife had borne the brunt of his
displeasure. The money under the false flooring of his
wagon had be156
come an obsession. Afraid that some of the newer
arrivals might be trying to rob him, he had conceived
an intense dislike for virtually all of them.
Retreating more and more into his shell, he had as little
intercourse as possible with the rest of the company.
He freely criticized the others to Cathy,
however, and one evening, shortly after supper, he
approached her as she sat near the campfire,
chatting with Lena Malcolm. "Come back to the
wagon," he said, glaring at her. "I want words
with you."
Cathy knew he was angry, but she had no idea
what had upset him. But she didn't want
to create a scene in public, so she said nothing as
they walked to the wagon. There she lighted three
candles and waited for what he would say.
Otto promptly blew out two of the candles.
"There's no need to light up this place like a
Christmas tree," he said. "One candle
gives plenty of light. You don't seem to care
how you waste my money."
His excessive frugality had almost driven Cathy
to distraction. But she knew from bitter experience that
she'd be subjected to a more severe lecture if she
had the temerity to oppose him. So she contented herself
with a quiet, "Yes, Otto."
The wagon was so crowded there was scarcely room for
their mattress at one side. Pointing an accusing
finger at her, he said "You're becoming too friendly with
that Malcolm woman. Why?"
"I like her very much," she said. The charge was absurd.
"Answer my question!"
"But I did," she said. 'There's no special
reason. You can get along all right by yourself, but I
can't. I need to talk with other people. What don't you
like about Lena?"
"She and that boy she married are paupers. She's
getting friendly with you so they can find some way to steal my
money."
"That's absurd." His accusation was so ridiculous
Cathy forgot her resolve to avoid a dispute with
him. "In the first place Lena and Terry are fine
people, and I enjoy them very much. In the second place,
they're anything but poor. When Mr.
Brentwood gave them the wagon they got the
contents, too, including a lot of money. They
probably have more money than anyone else in the
caravan."
"Then they're greedy for more. I notice the way they
fawn on you."
"They do no such thing." Cathy's patience was
exhausted.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"All I'm saying," she replied, "is that your
imagination must be playing tricks on you."
Otto drew himself up to his full height. "You
know nothing of the world because you're just a child. I forbid you
to associate with Lena and Terence Malcohnl"
Cathy suddenly felt rebellious. His order was
unfair and unrealistic, and she was sick of giving in
to his commands. "Otto," she said, "I'm your
wife, not your daughter. You didn't consult me before
you decided to make this trip to the ends of the earth, but
when you told me you were going, I agreed to go with you,

cause I believed it was a wife's place to obey
her husband."
"It is," he said.
She paid no attention to the interruption. "I
gave up my nice, snug home for a life that even
the gypsies would hate. I've never complained about the
hardships on this wagon train, not once. And if
I choose to talk with a decent and honorable girl,
that's my right. You have no proof that Terence and Lena
are intending to rob-was
"Must I wait until my money vanishes?"
Otto demanded.
"You have no evidence against them. You have no evidence
against anyone else in the company. I've never
disputed your word and I've never disobeyed your orders.
But this time you've gone too far. I'll see as much
of Lena Malcolm as I please!"
Now he looked apoplectic-a dangerous condition
in a man of his age. "I won't tolerate such
conduct."
"Do as you please," Cathy said recklessly. "I
refuse to consult you on everything I do. I realize
I'm committed to go all the way to Oregon with this
train, and I'll honor my obligations, although there
are things I'd rather do. But I won't tolerate your
bullying. My sister will gladly take me into her
wagon, and so will Lena and Terry, crowded though they
are."
Otto was incredulous. "You would dare
to leave your husband's bed and board? That's cause for
annulment."
"Then have our marriage annulled, and be damned
to you!" Never before had Cathy been so defiant.
"If
you behave sensibly, Til stay with you. But if you
don't, I'll go my own way. Sam
Brentwood says I'm earning my keep, so I'm
no longer beholden to you, Otto van Ayl."
Giving
trim
no chance to reply, she stalked out of the wagon and
disappeared in the darkness.
Otto was tempted to call her back, but he was
afraid she wouldn't come. It was inconceivable that she
could show such gumption. He no longer knew how
to handle her. When she had said he treated her like a
daughter instead of a wife, she had spoken the truth.
But that didn't matter. What worried
him
the most was the fact that he'd lost his moral
authority over her. He felt almost paralyzed.
Cathy wanted to see no one. She stayed away from
the campfire, wandering aimlessly around outside the
circle, staying hi the shadows near the
wagons. Now that she'd spoken her mind to Otto,
she felt sick. She was afraid she'd gone too
far. It was too late to undo the damage, however.
If he refused to take her back in their wagon,
she'd have to bear the consequences.
Pride made it difficult for her to ask
Claudia or Lena for refuge, and she would prefer
not to. Maybe she could simply wait until
Otto went to sleep, then creep into the wagon and go
to bed. Otto's pride was fierce. If his young
wife left him, he'd expect the entire company
to laugh at
him.
Rather than suffer that humiliation, he'd more likely have
her back and try to pretend that nothing had happened.
The sound of laughter and conversation within the circle
disturbed Cathy. Eager to be alone, she felt a
sudden urge to wander into the woods beyond the
perimeter of the camp. There, in the solitude, she
might be able to think more clearly and plot a sensible
future.
Suddenly, Whip Holt entered her mind, the
memory of his presence so strong it was like a
physical blow. For weeks she had fought her own
feelings. Now she knew that the struggle had
been a waste of time. She was in love with Whip, she
had to admiHt. And although he hadn't expressed his
innermost feelings to her, instinct told her that he
loved her, too.
But Cathy realized that she had to put Whip out of her
mind. As a decent, self-respecting wife, she
couldn't tolerate such feelings for any man not her
husband. Though her marriage had been
unsatisfactory from the beginning, and grown worse
during the expedition, there was nothing she could do to change
it. When she had been too young to know better, her father
had married her to the wrong man. He had meant
to provide her with lifelong security, but Papa
had been mistaken, and she had to suffer the
consequences.
As she walked toward the woods, someone called out
to her. It was the voice of a young woman. "Hello,
wait! Please stop!"
Cathy halted, feeling almost like a little girl caught
in a naughty act
Tonie Men materialized beside her in the dark. "I
saw you slipping away just now, so I followed," she
said. "Where you headed?"
"No place in particular," Cathy replied,
feeling somewhat guilty. "I felt like a
stroll through the woods, that's all."
"I reckon you weren't listening when Sam said he
didn't want anybody wandering away from camp after
dark. River pirates and other scum make their
headquarters in these parts, and they've been known
to kidnap unwary travelers and hold them for
ransom."
"I remember now, and I'm sorry," Cathy said.
"I certainly don't want to cause trouble." They
turned back toward the wagons.
Tonie allowed Cathy to go first through the opening between
two wagons, then touched her arm. "I'm feeling a
mite restless tonight myself. Come along to my wagon for a
chat."
Cathy neither liked nor disliked Tonie Mell.
She hesitated only for a moment before agreeing.
They walked in silence to the wagon, where Tonie
produced a jar of crushed raspberries she'd
mixed with water, sugar and wild mint leaves. "This
is a drink I learned how to make in Missouri,"
she said. "It tastes like lemonade, but I like it
better."
"So do I," Cathy said, after taking a sip.
They sat side by side on the lowered back steps
of the wagon. "To tell you the truth,"
Tonie said, "I saw you leaving your wagon. I
could tell from your walk that if you were a yellow
jacket or a hornet you'd be buzzing."
Cathy laughed.
"I was very young when my aunt and uncle took me out
to Missouri," Tonie said, "but I can remember
plain as day that they never stopped bickering. Most
settlers who've gone out there aren't on speaking
terms with each other by the time they set up a
homestead.
It stands to reason that two people get to feeling ornery
after sharing living quarters the size of a cupboard." be
"Did it show all that much?" Cathy was aghast
Tonie grinned. "Talking to your husband just now, you
weren't exactly keeping your feelings a secret."
"Oh, dear!"
"Don't let it bother you. I just happened to be
walking past your wagon at the time. Nobody else
heard you, just me." Tonie patted her on the
shoulder.
"Please let me apologize."
"Like belli You'll do fine on this march, and after you
get out to Oregon, too, if you keep saying what
you feel right out. You'll do better than your
stuck-up sister, that's for sure. I just
spent a little time in the East, and I didn't like it.
Everybody's polite, everybody hides what he
really feels, and that's what makes trouble. Trouble
in families, trouble between neighbors. Look at
New York and Philadelphia. They don't
even like each other. Out west folks are honest. We
say what we mean. We get our grudges off our
chests and everybody feels the better for it."
"Suppose a neighbor doesn't like something you
say?"
Tonie patted the bott of the pistol she carried in
her belt and laughed. "There are ways of handling
arguments like that."
"I'm not sure I'll like the West."
"Sure you will, Cathy. You try not to take offense
when somebody shoots off at the mouth, because you know
there'll
be
a real feud if you do. Then they're
nice and easy with you when you get to talking, so it all
works out."
Cathy sipped her raspberry drink. "Perhaps it'll
be all right," she said. "But I'll never be able
to ride and hunt and fish the way you do."
"There's no need. That's just the way I was
brought up. My uncle had nobody else to help
him on the ranch. You know how to cook and sew and
take care of a house, and every man appreciates those
things."
Every man except Otto, Cathy told herself, who
took them for granted.
"Sometimes," Tonie said, "I envy you."
"Really?" Cathy blinked in surprise.
"The men in this train treat you like a woman. Not because
you wear pretty clothes and go around with your nose in the
air, either, the way your sister does. Just because you're
a woman."
"So are you, Tonie."
"Nobody would ever know it. Not around here. Sam
treats me like I was his younger brother, and now the
Baron is doing the same thing. Even . . . even
Dr. Martin doesn't seem to think I'm a
female, so I have me a hunch he's no great
shakes as a doctor."
Her tone, even more than her actual words, gave
Cathy the idea that she was developing a personal
interest in Dr. Martin. If so, Claudia was
mistaken in believing that Tonie had set her cap
for Sam Brent- wood. Though Cathy didn't
want to embarrass the girl, perhaps she could
offer some friendly guidance.
"Do you mind a little advice?" she said.
"Fire away!"
"IF the men seem to think of you as a man, maybe
it's because you act and dress like one. Instead of
hunting, why not help with the cooking, or fetch water,
or wash dishes."
"I can do all those things," Tonie said. "I do them
at home. But hunting's more fun."
"Then go hunting, but not every day. And stop acting as
line monitor. There are plenty of men who can handle
that job now. The Baron is as well qualified as
you are," Cathy said.
"What in the world would I do instead?" Tonie looked
at her blankly. i
"Exactly what the rest of us do. Start wearing
dresses and drive your wagon every day. Then the men
will know you're a woman, even if you change
into buckskins to go hunting every night."
For a long time Tonie was silent. "I only own
two dresses," she said. "I bought them back
East."
"Can you sew?"
"Tolerably. My aunt saw to that."
"Then the next time we come to a town, buy
yourself some pretty material. And make yourself some
dresses. They'll do wonders for your femininity."
"It could be."
"If you like," Cathy said, "I'll lend you some lip
rouge and cosmetics."
"I don't want to look like your sister!" The
redhead was alarmed.
"No fear of that," Cathy said with a laugh.
"Nobody else looks like Claudia-or ever will."
"I'm willing to try," Tonie said. "Would you come
with me to buy some of that paint I can smear on my
face? I never thought the time would come when I'd start
daubing myself up like an Indian. But I sure do
get my dander up when I see the way men make a
fuss over girls who wear it."
"Of course." Cathy decided that this "untamed"
westerner might actually be more feminine than anyone
had realized.
"There's just one more favor I'd like. I hate to ask
it of you, seeing as how you're the sister of that high and
mighty one. So I won't mind if you turn me
down."
"I'll gladly do whatever I can," Cathy said.
Tonie hesitated, then blushed. "Don't tell
anyone we had this talk."
"I won't say a word to anyone, including
Claudia." Cathy vowed to keep her promise.
"I'm much obliged to you," Tonie said. "I
wouldn't want any woman to laugh at me.
'Specially your sister."
It was strange, Cathy thought, how much Claudia and
Tonie envied each other, how much each wanted
to cast herself in the other's image.
VII
A gentle rain started to fall as the caravan
approached the town of Wheeling, in western
Virginia, and gradually the weather got worse.
Because no one was planning to join the expedition there, as
far as Sam knew, he preferred to move through the
town without stopping, then make camp in the open
country beyond.
But the fame of the wagon train had preceded it, and in
spite of the rain the citizens of Wheeling turned out
in force to see the pioneers. Hundreds lined the
muddy streets. Those whose houses boasted glass
window panes peered out of them, while others stared from
open front doors.
Sam and Tonie, mounted and wearing their buckskins,
seemed impervious to the weather, and so did the mounted
Baron von Thalman. He was wearing a
water-repellent coat and headgear of wool that had
been treated chemically. But the drivers of the wagons
were as miserable as they looked. Soaked to the skin,
they clung to their wagon perches, watching water run
off the backs of their horses. Occasionally they took
off their own sopping hats to wipe the water from their
faces.
From inside their wagons, other members of the
expedition peered out. Perhaps, they thought, their unusual
reception was due to their bedraggled appearance.
The residents of Wheeling comwatched them in virtual
silence. Few people waved, few cheered, and only a
handful of children ran for short distances alongside. But
the townspeople of Wheeling weren't hostile. On
the contrary, they showed a sense of kinship and understanding that
had been lacking in many towns.
Residents of Wheeling regarded it as a frontier
town. They were aware of many of the hardships the company
faced. Just beginning to flourish as a coal-mining and
manufacturing center, Wheeling had been forced
to struggle for existence. Settlers from Virginia,
Maryland and the Carolinas had cut down trees,
built their homes and fought starvation on land that
resisted then- efforts at cultivation. They clung
to the hope of founding a major river port
that could supply factories elsewhere with vitally
needed coal. Now their dream was being realized.
They and their fathers had come to this town on the Ohio
River in wagons, some of them covered, some of them
open carts dragged by hand when horses were lacking.
Unlike the residents of many communities, they
saw little romance in the long line of covered wagons
slushing along through the mud. There would be days, they
knew, when everyone in the company would be
cold and tired and hungry. There would be periods when
disease would sweep through their ranks, but disease wouldn't
stop them.
Of the company, Sam Brentwood alone realized the
extent of the danger. The waters of the Ohio were already
rising, swollen by the rains. Then would come the
Mississippi and the Missouri, and after them the great
rivers of the West, the Platte and the Colorado.
Ahead, too, lay the endless plains and prairies,
the towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains and the equally
rugged ranges west of the Great Divide. Indian
tribes, resenting the incursion of strangers into their
territories, would be a constant menace. Sam
knew that many who were huddled in their wagons wouldn't
survive the arduous journey, the longest ever made
by American men and women.
As they left Wheeling behind to move south along the
Ohio, the rain worsened, coming down in torrents.
Claudia was reminded of what was called a
"nor'easter" in New England. The storm was
merciless and unrelenting. The ground became so soggy
that the wagons often had to keep in constant motion
to avoid bogging down in the mud.
The downpour continued for three days. The river rose
so high that Sam directed the wagons to move farther
inland. Eventually he was forced to call a halt at a
makeshift campsite. It was the pioneers" first
major confrontation with the elements, and new problems were
waiting to greet them.
With Sam's help, Abe Ellis covered the
special wagon with a second layer of canvas
to protect its precious cargo. Under no
circumstances could water
be allowed to dampen the gunpowder or cause the
emergency supplies of food to spoil. Men and
women had to protect their own property as best they
could. Some buried flour, sugar and salt beneath
clothing. A crude, temporary stockade fence was
erected in the forest to contain the horses, huddling beneath
dripping oaks and elms in a vain attempt to keep
dry.
Trees were felled in the heavy rain. Then logs were
split, the rails placed beneath the wheels of the
wagons so they wouldn't sink in the mud. But at least
drinking water was no longer a problem. Empty
barrels were filled within hours, and the water-gathering
detail was relieved of its responsibilities.
Some salt was spoiled, but that loss didn't concern
Sam unduly. He knew they would come to salt
licks, where supplies could be replenished.
When the sun came out after four days of rain, everyone
cheered. But Sam insisted that they remain at their
campsite for an additional twenty-four hours.
Clothes and blankets were hung out to dry on lines
stretched between wagons. Canvases were removed
to allow the sun to reach the insides of the wagons, and
perishables were placed in the sunlight.
Sam rode ahead to determine the amount of damage.
When he returned, late in the day, he assembled
the entire camp.
"I have bad news," he said. "The road on this
side of the river has been washed away. The west
bank, over in Ohio, wasn't hurt as much because the
road there is wider and built on higher ground. That
means we'll have to cross the river in the morning."
Otto van Ayl was alarmed. "How can we
cross a river that's raging like an ocean?"
"The water is already going down," Sam replied.
By tomorrow it should be safe. All we need do is find the
best place for our crossing."
Otto wasn't satisfied. "Should be safe?"
"That's what I said. If you were unwilling to take
chances; Mr. van Ayl, you should have stayed at
home."
Otto subsided. Cathy felt mortified.
Before sundown, Sam went ahead on foot, taking
several men with him, to explore the river banks.
After a careful exploration of the better part of a
mile, Sam found the place he was seeking. He
pointed toward the distance. "Look yonder," he said.
"There are two little islands in the river, like stepping
stones. Even now the water between them is fairly
shallow. By morning it will be even lower."
"How will we make the crossing?" Dr. Martin
asked.
"The horses ought to be able to walk most of the way,
hauling the wagons behind them. But if they have to swim,
the wagons will float for short distances. I've seen
it done that way many times on the Tennessee and the
Missouri. There's no real danger, if folks
keep their heads."
"Did you say the wagons will
float?"
Ernst von Thai- man looked dubious.
"Hellfire, Ernie, you've told me how you
floated cannon across the Rhine!"
"True, but we used pontoons."
"The weight of a wagon is more evenly distributed
across a greater area," Sam said. "Of course
floorboards might get a mite damp, so folks
will have to keep their food and valuables off the floor.
Everything depends on whether the good weather holds."
The caravan took most of the day to detour to the
crossing site. There they formed a line, ready for the
new adventure. The weather held, the morning
dawned bright and clear and the level of the river was still
lower.
First, Sam crossed alone on his stallion. The
beast walked slowly through disthe water from island to island,
swimming only a short distance on the final part of the
journey. From the far shore, Sam raised an arm and
beckoned.
Baron von Thalman was the next to cross, knowing more
about horses than anyone else in the train. He
held the reins himself, talking constantly to his
horses, reassuring them. His manservant
sat rigidly beside him. When they reached the other
side, the entire company applauded.
At her own insistence, Claudia went next. "I
want to set an example for the women and children," she
explained. "They'll be much calmer if they see
I'm all right."
Tier team needed only gentle urging to step into the
water. And with Quincy beside her on the boards she
felt the wagon move into the Ohio. The river
flooring of pebbles was smooth, which Teassured her,
and she reached the first grassy island without
difficulty, then went on to the second.
Only at that moment, when she looked down the
length of river, did she left-brace eel any
qualms. Less than a half-mile away, on the
Ohio side, there were jagged rocks in the stream, with
white-water frothing around them. It certainly wouldn't
pay to be carried downstream and smash her wagon on
those rocks.
Sam cupped his hands. "Easy now! When the
horses start to swim, keep a firm hold on the
reins, but don't haul them in too tight!"
Claudia nodded. Then she began the final
crossing. When the team began to swim, she caught
her breath. She could feel the buoyancy
of the floating wagon beneath her. But Sam Brentwood
had been right. Almost before she knew it her team
dragged the wagon onto dry ground. She could hear
the company applauding on the far shore.
Dr. Martin made the crossing with ease, as did
Tonie. They were followed by Otto and Cathy van
Ayl.
Cathy smiled hi relief when they reached the shore.
Next came Terence and Lena Malcolm, whose
eager
. young faces showed their pleasure in the experience.
One by one the others crossed. There was one early
mishap. When his horses began to swim, a
Pennsylvania farmer lost his courage. But Sam
was prepared and rode his horse to a place
alongside the endangered wagon, took the reins from
the farmer and guided the team ashore.
Emily Harris held the next to last place in
line because her youngest son, a boy of six, had been
sick earlier in the day. But she was undaunted by the
obstacles ahead, and with Chet sitting beside her and the
other boys peering out from the rear, she began the
crossing.
The last in line was James Caldwell, who was
suffering from a hangover. It had been
impossible to arouse him in time to award him an earlier
place. Bored by the long wait, he had started
drinking again and decided to try the crossing two at a
time, though Sam had expressly forbade it.
His pace was reckless, and he was almost directly behind
Mrs. Harris as her team moved into the final
phase of the crossing.
"Hold back, there!" Sam shouted to CaldwetLike
"The goddamn fool," he muttered.
Caldwell paid no attention, and actually seemed
to be racing as his team moved abreast of the Harris
team.
Sensing the danger, Sam rode into the water,
closely followed by Ernst von Thalman.
The inevitable happened. A Caldwell horse
kicked a Harris horse, and both reacted
violently. As the animals thrashed about in the
water, the two wagons locked together.
Emily Harris tried valiantly to draw her
team tree. But it required all Sam's and the
Baron's skill to pry the wagons apart. Then
Caldwell became so impatient to reach the shore that
he tried to move ahead, almost capsizing his wagon.
Terence Malcolm showed his resourcefulness by rigging
an emergency pulley, attaching a strong
rope to one of the sturdy, rear wheels of his wagon.
A teenaged boy took the loose end, quickly tied
a rock to it and heaved it with all his might toward
Sam,
Sam managed to catch it and swam his horse
into position beside the Harris wagon. Leaning over as
far
as he could, he passed it to Chet, and gave the boy
crisp instructions. "If you can, climb forward on
your mare's back. Move gently so you don't
upset her more than she is already. Then tie this rope
to the yoke- double knots, triple knots, as many as
you can-so it'll hold."
White-faced, Chet nodded. He stood and balanced
himself on the careening wagon, the cries of his frightened
younger brothers echoing in his ears.
"Hold the reins firm, Mrs. Harris!" Sam
ordered. . The terrified woman did her best.
Chet inched forward. He reached the wet, slippery
back of the mare. He knew he'd be done for if he
fell into the water, where thrashing hooves would kill
him. Finally, he made his way forward to the yoke and
did his best to tie it.
"It's secure now!" he cried at last, gasping
for breath, and praying that it was.
Terence tugged at the spokes of his pulley, using
all of his strength. He was quickly joined by a number
of volunteers, who worked in unison. Little by little they
drew the frightened team and the Harris wagon closer,
using the hub as a spindle.
Meantime the Caldwell horses were out of control.
Baron von Thalman risked his own life to ride
close enough to cut them loose. "Jump overboard and
swim!" he shouted to Caldwell. But the advice was
in vain.
The man was crazed, and stayed on his wagon as his
horses made their way ashore, where strong men
began to soothe them.
The wagon, partly submerged now, was picked up by the
current that became stronger below the islands.
Bobbing and jolting, it was carried faster and faster
toward the jumble of rocks and white water that appeared
at the bend.
A dozen people urged the man to jump overboard and
swim, but he seemed not to hear them, dinging to the
wreckage of his wagon, he was being carried to certain
doom. Other men followed downstream along the
bank, in a futile effort to do something.
Meanwhile, inch by precious inch, the Harris wagon
was moving toward safety, but the danger was
far from ended. Mrs. Harris clung doggedly to her
reins, using all of her strength to hold the team in
line. Chet, both arms around the mare's neck, did
his best to calm her and the gelding with a steady flow of
quiet words.
Never had Terence Malcolm labored so hard. He
was the anchor man in the team turning the wheel, and he
strained with all his might, grasping a spoke and
hauling it toward him, then grabbing the next and doing it
again, and yet again. Breathing hard, blinded with sweat,
he didn't even look at the horses and wagon
he was trying to save. His mind was a blank. All
he knew was that he had to succeed. Five lives were
at stake. Five lives were dependent on him.
Lena stood alone near the river bank. After
watching her father lose control of his wagon she had
to turn away. At that moment she knew she had
hated
him
all of her life. His browbeating had killed her mother
when she was a little girl. And in his drunken rages
he'd come close to murdering her, too. When an
observer let loose a bloodcurdling scream,
Lena didn't even look.
Some day, perhaps, she might feel sorry for
him. But
there was no pity within her now. Even her hatred had
drained away, and she felt nothing for him, not even
regret that he might have been different had he not
abused himself and those closest to him.
She heard it happen. The remains of his wagon
smashed on the rocks. Odd bits and pieces of
cargo bobbed up and down in the water before drifting on
downstream. James Caldwell vanished from sight,
and though one man ventured as close to the rocks as
he dared in an attempt to locate it, his body was
never recovered.
The Harris horses had at last found their footing.
As they did, Sam and the Baron closed in on either
side, making it impossible for the gelding and the mare
to break away. They climbed up onto the river
bank, where other men grasped their bits and held them
firmly. Soon the horses became completely
docile, their nightmare behind them.
Mrs. Harris managed a weary smile. "I'm
much obliged to all you folks," she said, then turned
to her younger sons behind her. "Boys, everybody has
worked up an appetite for supper, so get jumping
and collect some wood for the fire."
Chet was hailed as a hero of the occasion, and
Sam Brentwood awarded
him
his highest acclaim. "I lite your style," he
said.
Terence Malcolm slumped to the ground in
exhaustion, barely nodding when he was told that
Caldwell had drowned. When he got up, he was
so wobbly he had to be helped back to his wagon.
Everyone was concerned disfor his health. An anxious
Lena arrived a few moments later with Dr.
Martin, having left her
baby in the care of Cathy. She lighted a lamp,
then waited outside while the doctor examined her
husband.
"I reckon this is the end of me, Doc," Terence
said gloomily, stripping to his small-clothes.
"What makes you think so?" Dr. Martin observed
the man's deep torso, rippling shoulders and
muscled arms.
"My consumption. The doctor gave me no more than
a year to live."
The physician made no comment He thumped
Terence's chest and back repeatedly, had him breathe
deeply and ordered him to cough. His examination lasted
forty-five minutes.
Finally he put away his instrument bag. "When was the
diagnosis made, Malcolm?"
"Six months ago. Not long before I joined the
wagon train."
"And you've been on the trail several months?"
"That's right."
"Well, young man, the fresh air and exercise must
have had a healing effect on your body. I can find
only minor traces of consumption. Keep living a
healthy life, and in a few more months you'll be
cured."
Terence was incredulous, unable to believe the good
news. "You mean I'm not dying?"
"You'll probably outlive all of us." Dr.
Martin slapped him on the shoulder and left, pausing
for a word with Lena, who was waiting on the back steps.
"Don't make yourself a widow's dress just yet,"
he told her. "You'll have no use for it."
Terence was still dazed when a radiant Lena entered
the wagon, carefully lowering the rear flap behind her and
mailing it secure.
"I can't believe it," Terence said.
"I can. I've seen you getting stronger every day, and
I watched you haul in the Harris wagon. A
sick man couldn't have done that."
"Now what are we going to do?" he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I made you a promise, marrying you and adopting
Lenore. Now, since I'm not going to die, I
don't know what to do."
"I know." She ran a hand across his bare chest
Terence gaped at her.
Slowly, she removed her dress. "We've been
married for quite a spell now," she said. "I think the
time has come for me to start being your wife."
"But-was
Lena placed a finger over his mouth, curling an arm
around his neck. "I always thought the husband made the
advances. But I guess a woman does what she
must in this world."
He grinned. "I'm sometimes a mite slow to catch
on. You ... you're sure you want me, Lena?"
"I've been wanting you too long, Terry. I
wish you'd realize there are times when a man has
to learn to act instead of just talk."
Terence took her in his arms. His exhaustion was
forgotten as they kissed, then stretched out together on the
bed and began to make love in earnest.
That evening Terence did no chores, neither fetching
wood nor helping to build the fire, and
Lena did no
cooking. But those who noted their absence and assumed that
the girl was grieving for her father realized they were
mistaken when the young couple finally appeared for
supper, walking hand in hand. The doctor had spread
the good news.
And the radiance on their faces told its own story.
Henry St. Clair's dream of spending the rest of
his life in his beloved London was still ever-present in
his mind. He could almost taste the food and ale and
feel the warmth of the wench he coveted, in the
atmosphere of the world's most civilized city.
But the reality he faced was far different. He was now
a fugitive from American justice. Once Sam
Brent- wood notified the authorities that a
British spy was roaming through the Pennsylvania
countryside, U.s. Army troops would be on the
lookout for him. He might well be caught and sent
to prison. If that happened, his dreams would come
to nothing.
But Henry St. Clair had no intention of being
caught. Ruthless and hard-bitten, he was determined
not only to survive, but to carry out his mission, no
matter how great the odds.
Lesser men might have regarded those odds as
overwhelming, but not Henry St. Clair. He only
exerted greater effort. His situation was far from
hopetess, and a number of factors could tip the
balance in his favor. He had ample funds,
thanks to his habit of carrying money in his belt.
He had been forced to leave a portion of his operating
capital behind, but most of what he'd been given to do
the job was still safe on his person.
His biggest problems were immediate-and solvable. He needed
a stallion or a gelding to replace the work horse
he'd made his escape on. He-had eaten nothing
for three days, and he was ravenously hungry. His
clothes were soiled from three nights in the woods, and
he required a new wardrobe, preferably
inconspicuous, to make himself presentable. Thanks
to his hurried departure, he hadn't even brought a
razor with him, and he had a three-day growth of
beard. Always fastidious, he wouldn't feel clean
until he shaved.
All of these difficulties, however, were minor.
During the next week or so, before the United
States Government learned what had happened and
initiated a manhunt, he'd have ample
opportunity to alter his appearance. He was
determined to complete his assigned task.
One way or another, he had to destroy the wagon
train bound for the Oregon territory. Not until the
Union Jack flew unopposed there would he be
content. The London post would be a fitting reward.
Others might regard his predicament as desperate,
but he was filled with self-confidence. True, he had
to be careful. He couldn't stay overnight at inns,
trade his horse, or buy clothes and weapons, for
fear that people might remember him if they were questioned
by pursuing soldiers. But he could travel faster
than the wagon tram, and it would be easy enough to discover
some way to wreck it completely.
His mission had become more than a mere assignment
to win a coveted promotion. Now he had a
personal score to settle with Tonie Mell.
Now his goal had become a crusade.
Experience had taught him the value of patience.
Biding his time, he followed in the wake of the wagon
train, awaiting the right time to strike a crippling
blow. It was far better to create major incidents
than to leave a long, identifiable trail of minor
acts of sabotage behind him. It was almost
irrelevant that he was famished, his growling stomach
protesting. He had subsisted in the Caribbean
jungles for two whole weeks on water
and edible roots. He thought it unlikely he'd be
forced to surfer that much again.
Late on his third afternoon as a fugitive Henry's
resilience paid off. Riding across open country not far
from the caravan route, he was impressed by a
homestead in the distance ahead. A neat fence, a
barn, storage sheds and a whitewashed farmhouse
suggested that he might have found what he was looking for.
He slowed his pace to make a closer inspection.
A woman was working in a vegetable garden about a
hundred yards from the house. Two children were helping.
It was likely, Henry figured, that no one was in the
house. Detouring around it, he saw the farmer chopping
wood. Through the open door of the barn he could also see
a sleek chestnut horse in a stall-a perfect
mount for his purposes.
Leaving his horse to graze, well screened behind
trees, Henry picked up a heavy piece of
wood to use as a club, then discarded it when he saw
a hammer with a metal head. When necessary he could move
with the stealth of a mountain lion, and he made no sound
as he crept closer to the unsuspecting farmer, now
sawing a log four feet thick. With his future at
stake, the Ea182
glishman drove all unnecessary considerations
from his mind. There was no room in him now for compassion.
When he had crept up sufficiently close to the
farmer, he raised the hammer and smashed it into the
man's head, cracking it open. The farmer dropped
dead, and pitching forward across the log, blood and
brains oozed from his head.
Henry wasted neither time nor pity over the fate of his
victim. He hurried to the stable and saddled the
gelding. Then he went quickly to the house, found the
master bedroom, and helped himself to shirts, trousers,
stockings, underwear, and a jacket.
Luck still running with him, he found a pistol in a
drawer, along with a length of lead, a bullet mold
and a pouch of gunpowder. Packing his booty into a
sheet, he went to the kitchen. He took two
loaves of bread and a cold ham, from which only a
few slices had been cut.
Then he heard the sound of a woman's scream, soon
joined by the cries of her children.
After tying a handkerchief around his face to hide his
features, Henry carried his booty across his left
shoulder, leaving his right hand free. Now he had
to finish the job.
The woman stopped screaming when she saw him. The
two children clinging to her skirt, she looked
at him in silent terror.
Henry knew that there was little chance she could identify
him as the killer of her husband, but he didn't
want her stirring up the neighbors. It wouldn't
take more than an hour to organize a posse, and
then his
problems would be multiplied. He had to stop her
somehow.
Eyes icy, he went up to her and put all of his
weight behind a punch that caught her full in the face
and sent her sprawling to the ground on her back. He
thought he heard a bone snap and figured that he
might have broken her nose.
Not bothering to assess the damage, he ran to the
barn, mounted the gelding and galloped off toward the
west, the wails of the two little children following him
until he could no longer hear them.
Congratulating himself, Henry felt no remorse.
The end justified the means. Opposing armies on the
field of battle might still obey the ancient laws
of chivalry, but a spy knew no rules. It was his
duty to carry out his mission, no matter what stood
between him and his goal. He put the death of the man and the
injury to the woman out of his mind, along with their children.
He'd scored a capital success;
nothing else was important.
Spurring the gelding, he galloped until the
animal began to lather, then reduced his pace
somewhat. He rode until long after nightfall,
avoiding towns and villages and resisting the
temptation to eat. Rigid self- discipline was the
key to success for any espionage agent worthy
of the name.
Making his way through a heavily wooded area, Henry
was pleased when a thunder shower obliterated his tracks.
Even the elements were cooperating with him. Finally, at
midnight, he dismounted in a small clearing beside a
brook, where his exhausted horse could drink and
graze. Not even then did he eat, however. Other
things had to be done first.
He changed into the farmer's clothes, which fitted
him
reasonably well, and enjoyed an immediate feeling of
relief. Now he'd be indistinguishable from the
Pennsylvania farmers. He could appear in the open
without fear. Packing his belongings hi the sheet, which would
do until he got a pair of saddlebags, he
made some bullets, loaded the pistol and stuck it
in his belt. He was armed and ready for any contingency.
Only then did he tear off a chunk of
ham and a piece of bread and eat Although he was very
hungry, he held on to his sense of caution.
Realizing that he might get sick if he ate too
fast, he took small bites, careful to leave the
second loaf of bread and a portion of the ham for the
next day. He'd wait another thirty-six hours
before buying food and whatever else he needed.
Surely then he'd be safe, some fifty miles from
the home of the dead farmer.
Henry drank deeply from the brook, then stretched
out under a tree for a few hours of sleep. He'd
resume his journey well before dawn, but it was best
to rest for a time. His progress then would be more rapid.
Perhaps, he thought, it was just as well that he'd been
forced to leave the wagon train. Now he could function
more freely, bedeviling the train until he found a
way to disrupt it permanently.
Dozing on the bard ground of the forest that stretched across
North America for hundreds of miles on end,
Henry Still Clair finally allowed himself the luxury
of dreaming about London again. He was almost four
thousand miles from home, but he could still picture himself
sitting in his favorite tavern, eating a savory
meat pie, drinking several mugs of the finest ale
brewed anywhere on earth and then going
upstairs to a snug private loom for the night with a
compliant barmaid.
Nothing would stand between him and the realization of that dream.
Summer was at hand. The heat during the days was
intense, and even showers provided only temporary
relief. The nights were balmy, too, and sometimes
muggy along the Ohio River. Many of the travelers
slept with the canvas sides of their wagons rolled
part-way up to enjoy any breeze that might be
blowing. Horses and oxen tired more quickly in the heat,
so the halts at noon were extended to give the
animals longer periods of rest.
But as Sam well knew, the coming season had its
advantages. Wild berries were beginning to ripen,
and he showed the teen-aged boys where to find the edible
roots in the forest. Sometimes, too, they bought grains
and fresh vegetables from local farmers.
Meat remained the staple of their diet, however, and
there were so many mouths to feed that the need for fresh game
never ceased.
"I want to save our pickled beef and salt fish
for emergencies," Sam explained to Claudia, when
she asked him why hunting trips were so important.
"We're lucky there's game in such settled
territory. And I'm talking about real
game."
"Real game?" Claudia looked at him
blankly.
She continued to astonish him. "Ma'am," he said,
"if you brought back a brace of rabbits, you and some
friend could have yourselves a cozy supper, maybe. But that's
what I call luxury eating. Look at all those
wagons. We've got dozens of people to feed. We
haven't come to buffalo country yet, and bear meat can
be as tough as boot leather if you don't cook it just
right. So real meat means venison. Enough for a big
barbecue that will give us one hot supper and a lot of
cold ones."
She wasn't particularly fond of the strong taste of
venison, but she could understand his point. No wonder
Europeans were intrigued by the ability of
Americans to utilize nature to their advantage.
Nowhere in the crowded countries of the Old World would it
be possible for such a caravan to live off the land.
Even without the beef, the fish, the bacon and flour
hi the special wagon, the company could survive.
When the wagon train reached the southern tip of
Ohio, adjacent to Kentucky and Virginia, a
halt was called for a day. This country was sparsely
settled. Several hunting parties were
organized, each assigned to a different section of the
forest.
Sam and Baron von Thalman went off together,
returning with the best fortune of the day, a buck and a
doe. Others brought smaller game, so supplies
were re
plenished, and the meat that wasn't eaten at once was
salted for later use.
After supper Sam prepared the skins of the buck and
doe, a task most of the women found too disgusting
to watch, but one that attracted the children. First he
removed all hair from the outside with his razor-sharp
knife, then he scraped every trace of meat and fat
from the inside.
Next he broke off a chunk of soft limestone from
the side of the hill overlooking the river, then
pulverized it with the butt of a pistol. He mixed it
thoroughly with coarse salt, and added the brains and
intestines of the slaughtered animals to the salt and
limestone dust
Chet Harris was given the privilege of mixing this
concoction, and he performed the duty with vigor. Then,
as Sam showed the boys how to proceed, the mixture
was rubbed by hand into the skins.
"This is the important part," he told the
youngsters. "One winter in the Rockies it was so cold
I needed an extra coat to keep me from freezing.
I was in such an all-fired hurry that I took a
shortcut and didn't rub the skin as hard and long as
I should have. Three days later that buckskin shrank
to about half its size. It was hard as the rocks it was
laid on."
"Did you freeze?" Chet asked, kidding.
Sam shook his head and grinned. "Next day I
shot me an elk. That time I did a proper job
of curing the skin, and I had me a real fine cape
that kept me warm the rest of the winter. I might
well have died, however, so I want you lads
to remember one thing. When you're doing a job, do it
right!"
Next day the skins were stretched and spread on
top of the Baron's wagon, where they remained for more
than a week. When they were ready to be used Sam
presented them to Claudia. "I promised you these,"
he said. "Now maybe you can get your sister or
somebody to sew them for you."
"I do my own sewing, thank you," she replied.
"I wasn't sure," he said. "I know you can't
cook."
Claudia was exasperated.
"It so happens I'm a very good cook. I just
don't enjoy it, that's all." She took the skins
from him and flounced off.
Sam told himself that she was the most contrary woman
he'd ever known.
The next few evenings Claudia was busy with
needle and thread. She wouldn't let anyone help
her. Then, one morning, she appeared at breakfast
in a fringed buckskin shirt, enlivened with doeskin
fringe, and a long buckskin skirt decorated the
same way. She wore her high, laced boots and
she went straight to Sam. He was devouring
pancakes with wild honey taken from a complex of
hives by boys who had smoked out the bees.
That task, carried out under Sam's supervision, had
been surprisingly safe and simple. First the boys
gathered firewood, mostly small tree trunks
that hadn't been seasoned for more than a few months.
The fire had been laid with these trunks, split and
chopped into pieces no more than two feet long, on
top of a bed of kindling.
As soon as the fire had caught, the boys were told
to walk twenty feet away. When the top wood
began to smoke, the bees came into the open, and the
boys saw the reason for Sam's
precautions. .
The smoke poured upward, enveloping the hive. The
bees, unable to breathe, swarmed into fresh air,
searching furiously for the agent destroying their home.
The fire continued to burn for hours, making it
impossible for the bees to return to the hive, which never
caught fire.
Eventually the smoke drove the bees away. When
they tried to return after the flames had died down
and the smoke had lessened, the odor of the smoke still
clung to the hive, making it uninhabitable. During
the early hours of the morning, the bees had gone
elsewhere to make a new home.
The boys weren't permitted to approach the smoked-
out hive until breakfast-time. By then all the bees
were gone, and no one was stung. The boys had to agree
with Sam that the wild honey was delicious, and worth
all of their effort.
Claudia watched Sam enjoy his breakfast
"I'm ready now," she said. "The next time you go
hunting I'm coming with you."
Sam nodded reluctantly, afraid he'd bitten
off more than he could chew or digest
When another halt was called for a day of hunting,
fishing and foraging, everybody was given an
assignment The Baron suggested to Sam that they hunt
together again.
"Not this time, Ernie," he said. "I've got me a
lady partner today."
Ernst von Thalman chuckled. "Good luck," he
replied.
Claudia borrowed Terence Malcolm's rifle.
He was spending the day on a fishing expedition and
picnic with Lena and Lenore.
As they entered the forest, Claudia's manner was
defensive. She expected criticism, and it
wasn't long in coming.
"Don't clomp," Sam told her. "You'll
scare oft every animal within earshot."
"Show me how to walk!"
"Always lift your feet," he said, "like this. Never
slide 01 stamp on underbrush, and avoid exposed
roots, they'll grab you every time. Animals depend
mostly on their hearing, and even the best hunter can
give himself away."
Claudia watched him carefully, then did her best
to follow his example.
She continued to surprise him. In spite of her
hot temper and naturally cantankerous nature,
she had a genuine desire to learn. No
one was forcing her to become a hunter, and no one would have
blamed her if she'd stayed behind at the camp with the
rest of the women. But here she was, exposing herself
to discomfort because she'd made up her mind to broaden
her education.
Compelled to admire her spirit, Sam turned and
grinned at her.
Claudia immediately bristled. "I'm glad you find
me amusing, sir," she said, her voice tart
She'd misunderstood him, as usual, but he was
damned if he was going to explain his feelings.
"If you prefer," she said, "I'll hunt by myself."
"You'll do no such thing, ma'am."
"Why? Do you think I can't?"
"Mrs. Humphries," Sam said curtly,
"you're talking so much that every animal within earshot will
take
cover. Do me a favor. Do yourseUs a favor.
Just this once, see if you can't keep quiet."
Claudia flushed. She knew the rebuke was
deserved. She didn't speak again, but followed him
doggedly. Her rapid progress pleased him, but
he wanted to make certain she knew what she was
doing. So he moved more rapidly, testing her. When
she kept up his pace without complaint, he
realized he was being unfair to her and walked more
slowly. Occasionally he paused in little clearings or
beside brooks to study the ground. Sometimes he dropped
to one knee in order to examine the earth more closely.
Once Claudia put her lips close to his
ear. "What are you looking for?"
"Paw prints or hoof prints," he replied.
"Bent or parted grass. Any sign that will show me
an animal has recently passed this way."
Claudia began to look at the ground, too. And
she was the first to notice that a stretch of almost knee-
high grass leading from a small pond was parted
slightly, indicating that a large animal had cut
a path there after drinking from it. She touched Sam on
the shoulder and pointed.
His nod told her she was right, but that was his only
sign of approval.
Suddenly Claudia froze. A hundred yards
ahead in a hillside hollow, a pair of sleek
wolves were sleeping, their fur a dark gray. She
immediately raised her rifle to her shoulder.
Sam, who had heard her movement, astonished her
by pushing the barrel skyward.
Perhaps his motion awakened the wolves. Whatever
the reason, they leaped to their feet and were
gone, disappearing into the woods on the far side of the
hill.
"Why did you spoil my shot?" Claudia was too
angry to keep silent any longer.
"Wolf meat isn't much good unless you're starving,"
he said. "I don't believe in killing just for
sport, and they're friendly beasts. Except when
they're hungry, and then-watch out!"
"Friendly?" Was he joking at her expense?
"They'll fight if they're cornered," he said.
"Even a rabbit will do that. Otherwise they're as
harmless as Quincy. Anybody who thinks a wolf
is dangerous is dead wrong."
Claudia couldn't argue with him, and her annoyance
subsided. The outing was proving instructive, though
game was scarce. She was beginning to tire, though she
had no intention of admitting it, and she was relieved
when Sam called a halt at noon.
They sat on rocks at the edge of a brook. Sam
offered her a strip of meat.
Claudia hesitated. "What is itf
"Venison," Sam replied. "From the buck and doe
we shot to make your new clothes. Slice it thin as
you can, dry it in the sun and it lasts a long time."
She tasted it. She found the meat tough and
stringy, and had to chew each bite thoroughly before she
could swallow it.
Sam relished his meal, however, eating one strip after
another. "You don't seem to like it much," he said
amiably.
"Not particularly," Claudia admitted. "It's
a taste that takes time to appreciate, I
imagine."
"Maybe so. But I'd rather eat jerked venison than
a beefsteak."
Again she wondered if he was joking.
"There's a reason, of course," Sam said. "About
five or six years ago, near the Great
Divide, some Cheyenne warriors asked my help
in the dead of winter to run down a band of renegade
Apache who were looting and killing. We ran out of
food in a week and blame near starved. Then I
shot two bucks. We were above the timber line, so
there was no wood handy to make a fire, and we had
to cut the meat in strips and dry it out with salt and
sun. Nothing I'd ever eaten in my life tasted as
good as that jerked venison. It was even better than the
ten-course banquet when Andy Jackson invited
me to the White House."
How could he speak so lightly of the
tribulations he must have suffered, she wondered, almost
starving to death in mid-whiter. It was remarkable.
Surely it wasn't accidental, either, that he brought
down those two bucks, but he was so casual he
made it sound commonplace.
They resumed the hunt after finishing their light meal,
and came to another break in the forest. Ahead lay
rock-strewn hills where tall grass and tangled
bushes were the only vegetation. Sam studied the
hills at length, then indicated in pantomime that
he'd make a circle around the hills in one
direction while Claudia went hi the other.
She had no idea why he wanted them to separate,
but she obediently climbed onto higher ground,
moving to her right. She was able to make out here and there
what appeared to be caves. She took care to move
silently and cautiously. The sun was warm, the
breeze was gentle and she was reminded of similar
weather at picnics on Long Island Sound.
Well, she was far from home now. This wilderness near
the Ohio River didn't appeal to her. She was
hunting because boredom had forced her to challenge Sam
Brentwood, and for no other reason. Even her
buckskin clothes were ludicrous. She wasn't cut
out for a life in the wilderness. She'd much rather
be stretched out on a hammocTc in New Haven,
reading poetry. The printed word was far more romantic
than pioneering.
Suddenly she heard a low, deep growl. The next
thing she knew she was staring at a bear, emerging from a
clump of bushes. Six feet in length, he must have
weighed three hundred pounds. The beast's for was
black, and his yellowed teeth resembled fangs. The
baleful expression in his small, beady eyes
told her that she was his enemy.
The bear lumbered forward, moving with remarkable speed,
until he rose onto his hind legs and towered above
her. He was only a short distance from her, drawing
back his front paws in a manner that resembled a
boxer at a county fair.
Claudia was petrified. She couldn't move. She
knew that one blow from his giant paws could kill her.
The bear took a step toward her, then another.
She was afraid she would fault. Then a shot rang
out, and the bear halted abruptly. When a second
shot sounded, the beast toppled backward onto the
ground.
Sam arrived on the run, making certain the bear was
dead before turning to Claudia to shout:
"Why in thunderation didn't you shoot him?"
Claudia was trembling violently. She couldn't
reply.
Sam began to cut long, supple branches from the
bushes and plaited them together. "If you aren't totally
helpless," he said, "give me a hand."
His words stung her into action, and she followed his
example, not even knowing his purpose. She tried
to thank him for saving her life.
"Firearms," he said caustically, "were invented so
folks could defend themselves."
Claudia was too mortified to reply.
Sam made what looked like a crude mat. Then,
acting with the smooth efficiency that came from long
experience as a hunter, he lopped off the
animal's head, removed the paws and, after gutting
the body, kept only the carcass.
"Why butcher it here?" Claudia said.
He shook his head. The reason seemed obvious.
"Try picking up that much dead weight," he said.
"It's three hundred pounds, maybe more. We'd have
hell's own time hauling the whole thing back to camp,
so I'm just keeping the parts we can use for food."
She was beginning to understand that there was far more to hunting than
shooting animals.
"There are two rules," Sam said. "If
you follow them you won't ever go wrong. The most
important is, always hunt for need, never for
pleasure. The next is, don't bring down more
game than you can reasonably handle."
"In this case," Claudia replied with spirit, "we
had no choice. That bear would have finished me if you
hadn't killed him."
"True enough. But now we have all this good meat,
and I'm not going to let it be wasted. Not with all those
hungry people back there waiting for us. Ordinarily I
wouldn't shoot a beast of this size, but I'm not going
to leave the carcass for the buzzards and the ants to feast
on."
For the first time she was conscious of the inner spirit that
motivated a man of the frontier. He killed when
he was hungry, not because he enjoyed hunting for its own
sake. Above all, he was practical in his
approach to life. Newspapers and magazines
might picture
him
as a romantic figure, but he was actually a
hard-headed realist who scoffed at romanticism.
Sam shoved the bear's carcass onto his crude
stretcher and Claudia realized that he meant to use
it as a sled. He made a harness for himself
out of vines, and began to pull his burden, slinging his
rifle over his shoulder. "We'll take a short
cut to the wagon train," he said. "It's no more
than a couple of miles."
Claudia had no idea where they were, but his sense
of direction was uncanny, and soon she caught a
glimpse of the Ohio River through the trees. Even
if she disliked him, she had to admire his knowledge of the
wilderness.
In spite of his limp Sam was tireless as he
hauled the bear back to the train. Not until they
approached the campsite did he address her again.
'This wasn't too bad a day's outing. I'm not
partial to bear stew, but it's all right with parsnips
and the like. Bear steaks are fine, provided they're
pounded first. The bacon is the best part."
"I'll cook a bear steak for you tonight, if you like,"
Claudia said in a small voice, "and start
smoking the bacon."
He knew she was doing her best to thank him, and he
recognized how much the gesture had cost a proud
woman. "1"'11 look forward to that," he said, and
grinned.
More recruits were expected to join the caravan in
Cincinnati, and a majority of the party were
anticipating a sojourn in the river town, after
spending many days on the road. Shoes could be
repaired, notions could be purchased and those with
sufficient funds could buy such delicacies as
raisins and sugar.
Cathy van Ayl had her own reasons for wanting
to visit Cincinnati, but she dreaded to tell Otto
what they were. Since leaving home, they'd grown
even farther apart. He was now so
uncommunicative, Cathy spent most of her
evenings with Claudia and Lena Malcolm. Otto
went straight to bed after supper. He didn't care
when she joined
him,
he told her, provided she didn't disturb his
sleep.
The night before they were scheduled to reach Cincinnati,
she hurried to their wagon when she saw him leave the
campfire. When he reached it, she was wait- nig.
"Otto," she said, "I need to talk to you."
"Let it wait till morning," he said. "We
drove a long ways today, and I need my rest."
"It's important." Cathy was blocking the entrance
to the wagon.
Otto sighed.
"I need three dollars, maybe four, when we
get to Cincinnati," she said.
"That's a lot of money," he countered.
"Look at my dress. It's nothing but a rag, just
like my other two. Travel is hard on dresses,
and I need to buy some strong material to make new
ones."
"I don't see anything wrong with what you're
wearing."
"Please, Otto. I've never asked you for a penny
I haven't needed."
He had to concede the point. Still, he hated to throw good
money away. "Make yourself a dress out of skins,
like your sister did."
"I'll be glad to, Otto. Just shoot a buck
for me, and cure the skin."
Otto was annoyed. He was a dirt farmer who'd
never in his life gone hunting. She knew that. "I
demand the respect due a husband," he said.
Cathy felt pushed beyond endurance. "And I demand the
rights due a wife!" she said. "How would you like it if
I disgraced you by going naked in front of the whole
wagon train. That's what's going to happen when my
clothes fall apart"
Otto tried not to show his alarm.
Ordinarily Cathy was a good, obedient woman.
She cost him a lot less than a servant. But
he suspected her head had been turned by the
attentions of Whip Holt and that snippet who'd
married young Malcolm. If he had to give in,
he could still make it plain comt he was the head of the
family. "Well finish this talk inside."
Inside the wagon she lighted two candles, using
an old-fashioned flint and tinderbox that had belonged
to her mother.
"You're wasting tallow again," Otto said. "There's
no call for more than one light."
Cathy snuffed out one of the candles.
Otto took the precaution of closing the flap and
making it secure. Then he went to a box containing
most of then- cooking utensils. Digging out an old
teapot from the bottom, he rummaged through the pile of
old rags it was stuffed withand pulled out a roll of
tattered, yellowing one-dollar bills. They had
been printed during the administration of President
Thomas Jefferson a quarter of a century earlier.
Turning his back to Cathy, he counted out the money
carefully once and then again, before he was satisfied.
Finally he handed her two dollars, sighing heavily.
"Here," he said, "this is all I can afford
to give you."
Cathy hid her elation. She understood him better
than he knew. By asking for four dollars, she'd
been able to obtain half that sum, enough for her
purposes. For a dollar she could buy enough stout,
durable corduroy to make two dresses and a spare
skirt That would still leave a dollar for more feminine
material to make two other dresses, but she
wouldn't wear them till they reached Independence.
Suddenly she was brought up short. Why
Independence? She knew the answer, of' course,
even before asking herself the questioa Whip Holt would
be rejoining the wagon train there, and she wanted
to look her best when she saw him again,. Not, of
course, that anything could come of their friendship. She was still
Otto's-wife and an honorable woman, just as
Whip was an honorable man.
Even so, they'd be banning no one when they met again.
And she was looking forward to watching the glow of
pleasure in his eyes when he saw her. No one was
hurt if she enjoyed the admiration of a man whose
expression told her he thought she was lovely. She
couldn't ever remember when anyone else had looked
at her that way. Gandia told her she was pretty.
So did Lena. And both of them kept
saying she was foolish to feel inferior to other women.
Well, she sure didn't feel inferior when
Whip Holt looked at her!
By the time Cathy had pinned the dollar bills inside
her dress and quietly left the wagon, Otto was
sound asleep, his snores rattling against the
canvas.
When they reached Cincinnati the next morning,
Cathy went shopping with Claudia and Lena. Because
Sam warned them that it was dangerous to wander around the
city without escorts, hinting they might be taken for
loose women, they went straight to the small general
store only a few minutes' walk from the
campsite.
Cathy knew exactly what she wanted and made
her purchases at once.
Claudia, who hadn't intended to buy anything of
consequence, changed her mind when she saw several
lengths of sturdy cloth hi attractive
patterns. It would be wise to enlarge
her
wardrobe, she reasoned, since she'd stopped wearing
her silk gowns on the road. She couldn't be like those
women who didn't care how they looked. Even if
clothes got dusty and soiled on the road,
there was no reason why a woman shouldn't try to look
her best.
Lena Malcolm needed help. Not until the two
sisters
began to advise her did they discover that this was the first
time in her life she'd ever bought material for
clothes. Her father bad always bought the cheapest cloth
he could find, so the new experience was delightful.
As she hesitated, holding swatch after swatch up
to the light to study them critically, a new customer
entered the shop.
It was Tonie Mell. Claudia exchanged a
cool nod with her. Tonie was brusque, as always,
and selected a length from the first bolt at hand. It
happened to be a bright red that would clash with her hair,
and even though Claudia still disliked the tomboy
intensely she felt compelled to intervene.
"Don't buy
that,"
she said.
Tonie bristled. "Why not?"
Claudia led Tonie to the only mirror in the
store, which was hanging on a wall, and held the
material up to her hair. "See? The color
combination is terrible."
Tonie had to concede that Claudia was right
"Gee,"
she said, "I never thought of that."
"Obviously," Claudia said. Her good deed
accomplished, she rejoined Cathy and Lena, who was
beginning to narrow down her selections. But Tonie
Mell wasn't on firm ground yet. Looking
thoroughly confused, she tapped Claudia on the
shoulder. "If you aren't too busy," she said,
"maybe you'd do me a favor."
"Of course," Claudia replied.
"When it comes to riding and shooting I know what Fm
doing. I'm not so bad at branding cattle, either."
Tonie swallowed. "But the only time I ever wore
a
dress back home was when I went to church or when
the pastor came calling. I can cut out patterns and
sew. My aunt taught me that. But I don't know
what looks bad on me and what looks good."
No lady could refuse such an earnest appeal for
help. Claudia sighed and led Tonie Mell to a
counter on which many bolts of cloth were piled.
"First of all," she said, "decide on what style
you want."
"Something simple." f onie looked
hopeful.
"We'll decide on the cloth first, then match it
to a pattern in the book over there." Claudia
examined the bolts and picked up a soft, mossy
green wool. "This would be pretty with your hair and
coloring," she said.
"Pretty?" Tonie was dubious. "That's not
likely."
It was something of a shock to realize that the girl
didn't think of herself as attractive. "Take my
word for it, Tonie. You'll look good in this."
"Whatever you say." Tonie didn't know how
to express her gratitude.
Claudia picked out two other bolts, a deep
yellow broadcloth and a dusty blue corduroy.
"How much of each should I get?"
The poor girl was helpless, Claudia thought. She
led Tonie Mell to the pattern book. "Choose
styles that will show off your figure," she said. "Your
tiny waist Your high bustline. Your long body."
Frowning as she concentrated, Tonie pored over the
pattern book.
When the other three women completed their purchases and
left the shop, she was still choosing patterns.
Claudia had been far more generous than
she'd
meant to be. Maybe she should have let Tonie buy
the red material. Now, thanks to her help,
Tonie would look her best, and Sam Brentwood
would think her even more attractive than he
obviously did already. There was a limit to charity,
Claudia reflected, and wanted to kick herself.
Many of the pioneers saw their first Indians on the
Cincinnati waterfront. One of the Harris boys
expressed a common disappointment when he said,
"Golly! They look just like everybody else." And
indeed the braves, who worked as longshoremen, wore
the shirts and trousers of white men, cut their hair
in the same styles and even spoke a tolerable
English. When Claudia had accompanied Cathy
and Lena on their shopping expedition, she had hurried
the two women past a doorway in which a heavily
made-up Indian girl was loitering.
"Just wait," Sam Brentwood told the Harris
boys. "These Indians have been exposed to the white
man's civilization for more than fifty years.
You'll see a different breed on the other side of the
Missouri River, and more often than not you'll wish you
hadn't. But even here you've got to be careful.
Don't stare too hard at them. There's
no telling what an Indian will do if he thinks
you're being rude. And stay away from any redskin
who's been drinking. Then they're as ornery as I
used to be."
Claudia had read that Cincinnati was the only city
in the United States where North, South, East and
West met and lived together in harmony, and the
description was accurate. Settlers had come
to Cincinnati from every state on the Eastern seaboard,
and in
recent years they had been joined by thousands of
immigrants, most from the German states and
Ireland. Slavery was prohibited in Ohio, so
many free blacks lived there, working in peace and
security. But numerous slaves from across the river in
Kentucky also came to town with their masters, and the
Southern influence was strong.
It was the steamboat'traffic on the Ohio,
recently expanded with canals and extending all the
way to the river's conjunction'with the great
Mississippi at Cairo, Illinois, that gave
Cincinnati its character. Fur traders in buckskins
were everywhere, together with farmers from the West, trappers and
even mountain men who treated themselves to the delights of the
bordellos on the low-lying plateau near
the waterfront
The more elegant homes were located in the hills behind
the plateau, and industry was thriving. There were
fur-processing plants, heavy industries and a
number of factories making consumer goods. The
pioneers were astonished by the prevalence of pigs.
There seemed to be several in every back yard, and it
wasn't uncommon to see stray pigs wandering down
the streets. Even the well-informed Baron von
Thalman hadn't known that Cincinnati had become the
meatpacking capital of America. More sausages
were made there than in all the rest of the country.
With all its frontier location, Cincinnati hadn't
neglected its culture. Music groups and art
societies flourished, there were three thriving theaters
where plays were produced and lectures given, and
Claudia, after visiting several bookshops,
returned to her wag206
on with armloads of books that would keep her busy
on the long journey that still lay ahead.
Fourteen wagons joined the train hi Cincinnati,
making a total of forty, including the special
wagon. Now the phenomenon was unique. Never before
in all human history had any people used such an
extraordinary means of transportation for a
migration covering thousands of miles. It didn't
occur to these colonists, however, that they were doing
anything unusual. Practical men and women, they
had chosen the method best suited to their needs.
No one who saw the procession could fail to be
impressed. Scores of settlers had left their
homes and families to travel to the distant
Oregon country, where they hoped to make new
lives for themselves. They were motivated, in the main,
by blind faith. Two hundred acres was available to every
settler, a tract far larger than most would ever be
able to acquire elsewhere, even after a lifetime of
hard labor.
An enterprising family could make a living on
two hundred acres of fertile land. Unknown to the
pioneers, however, unscrupulous men were scheming
to deprive them of their heritage. Land
speculators eager to profit themselves were already doing
what their predecessors had done in the Ohio
Valley and elsewhere comoffering cash for titles to the
land. Unaware of the true value of real estate,
many would-be settlers gave in to temptation and sold
their futures for a small fraction of what the
speculators would charge in a few years' time.
The system the speculators employed was
simple.
The early settlers would straggle to build new
homes and forge a civilization in the wilderness.
AU a shrewd speculator need do was sit tight
while the pioneers did his hard work for him. After
travel became safer and living conditions less
primitive, he could easily resell the tracts
to those who could afford them. The more the pioneers
accomplished, the more attractive the country became
to those who followed, men who didn't mind paying
substantial sums for land that would continue to increase
in value.
Sometimes, to be sure, the plans of the speculators
misfired. Sometimes they invested too much, leaving
nothing hi reserve, and when it took longer for a
territory to be developed than they had planned,
they went bankrupt. Then the government stepped in,
reclaimed the land and offered it again to homesteaders,
So far the blight of speculation had not infested the
Oregon venture. When the company reached
Independence, Missouri, the take-off point into the
wilderness, the head of each family would be given a
deed for two hundred acres oi his own choice within
a large, prescribed area. Those deeds promised
solid homes, enough food to eat and a chance
to walk with dignity. That was all the poor and the
ambitious wanted, as their large numbers
testified.
If the East was in the grip of an economic
depres- -- sion, there would be no fear in the Far
West, where a man would grow his own crops and raise
his own livestock. Here in America something was being
born, a new country. Men, women and children were marching
toward this unknown land, confident of survival and
prosperity.
In effect the pioneers were conducting an experiment in
communal living. Each woman and man held a
measure of responsibility for the safety of all.
And Sam saw to it that there were no shirkers.
Old-timers helped to train newconiers in their
duties. The morale of the company depended on the knowledge
that people were working together for the common good, each individual
doing his or her share.
"Eventually," Dr. Martin said, "this kind of
cooperation should create a truly unifying spirit."
"It happened when settlers first went to Tennessee,"
Sam said. "And I saw for myself that it worked in
Texas, too. The lazy and the shiftless can't stand the
pace and turn back, so only the strong stay in the
wagon train. They're the ones who learn
to handle any kind of situation and face any
emergency. Together. That's the spirit I'm hoping
to build."
When the caravan left Cincinnati, its length was more
than a quarter of a mile. The couple in the tail
wagon were the most noticeable of the newcomers. Nat
Drummond, who had sold his tailing farm across the
Ohio from Cincinnati in Covington, Kentucky,
was a slender, nervous man in his mid-forties who
always wore a timid look on his face. The
reason was obvious: his wife, Grace, was as tall
as Nat and outweighed him by at least twenty-five
pounds. And Nat couldn't call his soul his own.
Everyone in earshot could hear Grace's
early-morning command, issued in a resounding
contralto: "Nat, stow away the dishes and hitch
up the team!" At night she was equally brusque:
"Don't just sit there, Nat. Stir yourself for
firewood, then peel the potatoes. After that you can
knead the dough.
You know I have only two hands. I can't do
everything."
Soon Drummond was known to one and all as "poor
Nat" But he remained good-natured, always eager
to please everyone, and appeared to take his
wile's bullying in stride. Grace, on the other
hand, became friendly with only one person, Otto
van Ayl. This friendship bloomed with the discovery that
each believed in planting green beans, squash and
cucumbers as soon as possible after the ground thawed
in the spring. They discussed crop-tending together at
supper every evening, stopping only when Otto got
sleepy or Grace directed Nat to help wash
the dishes.
Another new arrival seemed drawn to Claudia.
Arthur Elwood was a former member of the Ohio
legislature who surprised most of his listeners
by announcing that he knew nothing about farming. Dapper,
in his late thirties, with sleek, black hair and a
mustache, he wore city clothes even on the road,
confessing to Claudia that he had no wish to look like
a common laborer.
He seemed interested in her without trying to pay
court, and gradually Claudia began to express
her own opinions to him, telling him how much she
missed the life she'd known before joining the expedition.
He proved to be a good listener.
"I've been thinking about your situation," he said one
morning, "and I sympathize with you. I don't know
you all that well, of course, but I can
tell you'd be more at home at a lecture than
planting a two- hundred-acre farm."
Claudia laughed. "It would take me a lifetime
to plant two hundred acres."
"That's what you'll be awarded, you know. So will every
settler who signs the letter of agreement"
She didn't know what he meant.
"Every member of this wagon train," Elwood
explained, "will be presented with a document drawn up
by John Jacob Astor and his associates. In
return for your pledge of your intent to settle in the
Oregon country you'll be given a deed for two
hundred acres of land. The exchange of papers will
take place in Independence, before the caravan
moves into the wilderness."
"I hadn't been told," Claudia said, "and
I'm not sure it very much matters, according to what I
read in the newspapers back home. Since the
United States hasn't established sovereignty
over the Oregon territory, I don't see how
Astor or anyone else has the right to hand out
property deeds."
"You're mistaken," Elwood said forcefully. "The
deeds are based on the assumption that the United
States will establish its sovereignty
there, and then the deed will be binding-and valuable." "You
must be joking," Claudia said. "On the contrary,
I've never been more serious. Suppose you become
so disillusioned that you decide to turn back in
Independence-was "How I wish I could!"
"Hear me out, Mrs. Humphries. You simply
sign the letter of intent, as they call it, but you're not
obligated to go to the Oregon territory in person.
You can
dispose of your deed to someone else. I've looked
into it carefully, and you'd be within your legal rights."
"But why would I do a thing like that, Mr. Elwood?
Why would I accept a deed for land I wasn't going
to use?"
"Because it's worth cash to you," he said with a smile.
"I myself would be happy to pay you a dollar per
acre for an otherwise worthless scrap of paper.
Two hundred dollars in all.". greater-than
It dawned on Claudia that he was more clever than
she had realized. If he could persuade a number
of the would-be settlers to sell him their deeds he could
acquire large tracts of property. Then he could
easily double his money by selling the property for two
dollars per acre, and if the land was as fertile as the
sponsors claimed, he could get far more.
Only recently, she had read, homesteaders who
had obtained free land in Illinois a decade
earlier had been selling their property for as much as
five dollars per acre.
She had no desire to make a firm commitment
to Elwood, however, so she hedged. "Thank you for the
lesson in real estate," disshe said. "I'll think
about what you've told me."
She mentioned their conversation to no one, but she noted that
Elwood, although still friendly toward her, began
to devote more of his attention to others. He appeared
to be ingratiating himself with the occupants of one wagon
after another. It dawned on her eventually that he was
making cash offers to them, too.
Claudia neither approved of what he was doing nor
disapproved. Newspapers for years had been filled
with complaints from the citizens of the new states and
territories in the West, who called land
speculators vultuies. But in her opinion a
businessman was entitled to earn money in any legal
way he saw fit. George Washington had
invested heavily in the Ohio Valley land many
years earlier, and through no fault of his the venture
had failed, Washington had lost a fortune, but no
one had ever called the first President of the
nation a vulture.
Sam Brentwood, as usual, disagreed with her.
Watching the former legislator engaging in disan
animated private conversation with Emily Harris
at the campfire one evening, be muttered
to Claudia, "That man is asking for a punch in the
nose."
"Why?"
"Maybe you don't know what he's up to, offering
folks money for the deeds they'll be issued when we
reach the Missouri River."
"I do know," Claudia said, "but I don't see
what's wrong."
It wasn't easy for Sam to explain, but he tried
to. "Take Mrs. Harris. Everything she owns in
the world is in her wagon, and she has four boys
to support. The Oregon country offers her the chance
to make a new life for herself and her family. Two
hundred dollars is a heap of money to a poor
lady. But she can't buy a farm or a business or
blame near anything else in the settled parts of the
country for that kind of money, and once she spends it,
she and her boys could starve to death."
Claudia began to understand.
"That's why people like Elwood are leeches.
If I had my way I'd boot him out of this
wagon train. But
I can't. I'm under orders to accept every last person
who joins us, and I'm not allowed to judge."
Sam was exaggerating somewhat. Certainly he had the
authority to reject strays, but it became apparent
one morning when the caravan was moving through the hill
country
of
southern Indiana that he sometimes chose not to exercise
that power.
The women had just cooked breakfast, and were handing out
chunks of bread and bowls of steaming fish chowder. They
had used corn, which was plentiful, in the chowder rather than
potatoes, which were scarce. A bedraggled figure
emerged from the woods. Barefooted, dressed hi a
patched shirt and worn linseywoolsey pants, he
appeared at first glance to be a boy. When he
spoke in a soprano voice that turned to a
baritone, however, people realized he was in his early
teens.
"I don't reckon you got any vittles
to spare," he said, approaching the fire.
Emily Harris looked at Lena Malcolm, who
was helping her serve, then handed the boy a
bowl. He ate quickly and it was obvious that he was
ravenous. Emily refilled his bowl.
"You folks got any odd jobs you want done?"
he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
The women directed him to Sam Brentwood, who was
organizing the day's march.
The boy spoke to Sam, adding, "I can do anything,
mister. I can chop wood and curry horses and
gather hay and mend harnesses and wash clothes and
drive a wagon. I can do anything that needs being
done."
Sony for him, Sam studied the scrawny youth.
"Who are you and how old are you?"
"I'm called Danny. I ain't got no other
name. I figure I'm thirteen, or thereabouts."
"Where's your family?"
"I never had any." The boy's slender shoulders
rose and fell.
"Weil," Sam said, "I reckon we can give you
a try. Let's see you make yourself useful."
Danny's energy was astonishing. He hitched
horses to wagons, put out the breakfast fires and
even helped the women wash the dishes, a task he
accomplished with demonic fury. He accepted
Claudia's invitation to ride with her and
Quincy, but sitting on the boards beside her he
seemed to lose his powers of speech.
She made a number of attempts to draw
him
out, but he answered in monosyllables or merely
nodded, so she decided to wait until he thawed before
trying to learn more about him. During a brief pause
at noon he was the first to race down to the river, then
ranged up and down the line, offering water to the
company. Later, Claudia unwrapped one of the
redolent sausages she had bought in Cincinnati,
and the boy devoured all ofit. his
That afternoon, he gathered more wood for the fire than
anyone else, and when Chet Harris invited
hi*
for a quick swim in the river he insisted on getting
Sam's permission before he accepted. The boys
stripped to their smallclothes, then plunged into the
river, where Danny's talents as a swimmer
indicated that he had lived near some body of water.
When she saw his back, Claudia gasped. Many
others noticed it, too. From his' shoulders to his
waist, a mass of crisscrossed scars covered the
skin, many old and healed, some still livid and swollen.
Anyone looking could tell that the boy had
been beaten often and severely.
Danny made himself so useful before and after supper that
the entire company became aware of his presence. His
desire to be helpful was genuine, his energy seemed
inexhaustible-and his appetite was enormous, no
matter how much he ate. Claudia supplied bun
with a blanket, and Emily Harris offered him a
place to sleep in her wagon with her sons. So
did Grace Drummond, who said, "You can sleep
with Nat on his mattress."
The boy refused, however, and insisted on sleeping in
the open, near Sam. He was the first to awaken in the
morning, and not only had the fire built but had most
of the diswater fetched by the time others began their chores.
Before his second day with the company came to an end, he
was accepted without reservation by virtually everyone, although
many were curious about his background.
That mystery was partially solved the following morning.
As camp was being broken before the day's journey, a
tall, thick-shouldered man in rusty black rode
into the encampment on a gelding, a long rifle laid
across the pommel. He halted, pushed his battered
hat to the back of Ms head and demanded, of no one in
particular, "Who's in charge of this lot?"
He was directed to Sam Brentwood, who
had al216
eady noted his presence and loosened the pistols in his
belt.
"Name's Homer," the man said to Sam. "Lookin'
for my bound boy. He run away a coupl'a days
ago, when you was campin' near my property. And if
you got him here with you, you'll damn well regret
it."
Sam's pale eyes became flint-like. "I don't
take knufc ly to threats, Mr. Homer," he
said. "I'm courteous to anybody who is polite
and reasonable with me. So state youi business like a
gentleman, or be on your way before I run you
oft."
Homer heard Sam's cold voice, saw his
expression and became a shade less belligerent.
"Here's the papers provin' he belongs to me," he
said, taking a tattered document from his belt.
"Five years I've had him, and he ain't been
worth the food he eats."
A large crowd was gathering around them, and people were listening
but saying nothing, their faces blank.
"You seen the kid?" Homer demanded. "I warn you,
I'm huntin' through every wagon for
him
if I have to, and if I find him I'll have the law
on your heads."
Arthur Elwood stepped forward. "I assume you
carry a properly executed search warrant?"
"I don't need none," the man declared. "I already
told you, he's my bound boy."
"I'll allow no one to go through these wagons except
a sheriff who carries a warrant signed by the
judge of the local county court," Sam said.
Claudia was seething with resentment at this boy217
eating man, but her smile was sweet. "Forgive me
for interrupting, Mr. Brentwood," she said, "but
we're not hiding anyone. So I suggest there's no
need to stand on formality with this-ah, gentleman.
By all means let's allow
him
to go through the wagons."
No one knew where Danny was hiding, and there was a
stir in the crowd.
Sam grinned, instantly approving Claudia's
strategy. If they seemed to satisfy the man,
he'd leave'in peace. Otherwise he'd be certain
to return with a sheriff and a duly executed warrant,
and then real trouble would develop. "Mrs.
Humphries," he said, "for once I
agree with you. All right, Homer, you can search the
whole blamed train. But leave your horse and your
rifle right here."
"I never go anywhere unarmed!"
"Tnose are my conditions." Sam stood his ground
quietly.
The man dismounted, placing his rifle in a sling. He
was badly outnumbered, so he had no choice.
Chet Harris started to inch away, intending to find
Danny and warn nun, but he stopped short when his
mother glowered at him, her expression indicating that
Ibis was a situation adults had to handle.
"Folks," Sam Brentwood said in a voice
loud enough to carry far beyond the edge of the crowd. "I've
given Mr. Homer permission to search the train for his
runaway hound, boy." Theo ba added, sfakfty
foi Danny's benefit, "He'll start at the
front and work toward the back: Now, then. Your
wagons are your private property, your homes.
So if any of you don't want to let
him into your wagons, that's your right. Speak up now."
No one responded. Only Homer looked
pleased.
"Fair enough," Sam said. "Now I want each
wagon owner to be on hand when we come to your
property, so I suggest you go there right now."
People looked surreptitiously for Danny as they
scattered, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Cbet greater-than and one of his brothers picked up
pails,- ostensibly for the purpose of going down to the
Ohio River for, water, but their mother stopped them,
afraid they might give away Danny's hiding
place.
"Mr. van Ayl," Sam said, "we'll start with
your wagon."
"This is tomfoolery," Otto said. "We're being
delayed when we could be on the road."
Cathy peered inside their wagon before she opened the
flap wide for Homer's inspection.
When the man approached Claudia's wagon,
closely attended by Sam, Quincy's low, deep
growl forced his mistress to hold him. And the dog's
hostility was echoed by the occupants of wagon after
wagon. Some pretended Homer didn't exist,
others glowered at him, and-yen the meek Nat
Drummond indicated his opinion of the man
by spitting on the ground.
Unmindful of their attitude, Homer conducted a
careful, slow search, scrutinizing the interior of every
Wtgoa.
Still no one spoke, but members of the group exchanged
quick, worried glances. Some were afraid that Danny
was doing a self-appointed chore and would
wander unawares into the compound. Others were equally
afraid that he'd become privy to the danger and run
away again.
Alter the last wagon had been inspected, Sam
escorted Homer back to his waiting horse. "I
hope you're satisfied," he said.
"I guess I got to be," the man replied.
"If the brat shows up, just notify the sheriff of
any county in this part of the state. I'm offerin" a
reward of ten dollars in gold for his- live
skin, and half will go to anybody who turns him
in."
Sam didn't deign to reply, and waited until
Homer rode off before cupping his hands and giving the
signal for the start of the day's journey. "Wagons,
ho!"
People stood on their boards now, looking openly for
Danny, while Chet Harris and two of his
brothers spread out, one hurrying down to the river and the
others dashing into the woods. Danny was still nowhere to be
seen.
As the wagons began to move off one by one,
Claudia felt heavy-hearted. She couldn't
blame Danny for fleeing, but she'd miss him, as
would all the others. In trying to help him, the whole
company had banded together for a single purpose.
As she flapped her reins and her wagon started
to move, a small figure darted out of the woods and
climbed up onto the boards beside her. "I was
lucky," Danny said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I was off at a little pond, gettin" you a
special present, when that Homer showed up, or
he'd have nabbed me for sure."
Her relief was so great she wanted to hug him.
"What was the special present?"
He opened a grubby fist. Nestled in his palm were
three tiny, fragile duck eggs. "They're a
rare tieat when you scramble them up," he said.
The only way she could prevent herself from weeping was
to stand for a moment and shout to the occupants of other
wagons, "Danny's here!"
The word passed up and down the line, and suddenly,
spontaneously, people began to sing one of the most
popular songs of the day, "Illinois," and seemed
to be of one mind when they substituted Oregon for the
name of the older territory.
Way down upon the Wabash, Such land was
never known, If Adam had passed over it, The
soil he'd surely own; He'd think it was the
garden He'd played in when a boy, And straight
pronounce it Eden In the state of Oregon. Then
move your family westward Good health will you enjoy,
And rise to wealth and honor In the state of
Ore-gonl
They bellowed verse after chorus, indifferent to the
fact that many lines ended with words that rhymed with
Illinois rather than Oregon. Only after they'd
grown quiet again did Danny speak.
"Folks hereabouts is sure good f me."
"They think you deserve it, Danny," she told
him.
He became ruminative. "I got me only one
trouble now."
She knew him well enough by now not to question him, knowing
he'd offer an explanation in his own way when he was
ready.
Danny remained silent for a time, and seemed
reluctant to express what was on his mind, but
finally he felt compelled to speak. "I was waitin'
to get my chores done before I ate anythin', but with
hidin' in the woods and all, I plumb missed
breakfast."
"You know where I keep the Cincinnati sausages.
Help yourself." Having seen Homer, she felt
sure the boy had been deliberately starved.
He climbed back into the wagon and returned with a
whole sausage, which he proceeded to eat. In
spite of his hunger, however, he took care to break
off several generous chunks for Quincy, which cemented
their friendship.
When the caravan halted for the day Danny was
surrounded by well-wishers, the entire company
congratulating
him
on the escape in which all of them had played a
role. The atmosphere at the campfire that night
was festive. Those who had been reserved became more
talkative, and people from the East went out of their way
to be friendlier to more recent arrivals.
As the meal ended someone began to sing. Nat
Drummond went off to his wagon for a fiddle, which
he playe'd with surprising skill and feeling.
Even though they'd be making an early start the next
morning, people lingered at the fire, and the singing went on and
on. Jugs of wine materialized and were passed, and
even Otto van Ayl stayed awake long past his
usual bedtime.
The Baron chatted with Emily Harris, and in
spite of the disparity of their backgrounds they engaged in
a lively conversation. Grace Drammond
presented Danny with a shirt and a pair of trousers,
saying, "Nat doesn't need these." Even Arthur
Elwood relaxed and refrained from trying to persuade
anyone to sell him a property deed.
Sam Brentwood stayed somewhat apart from his charges,
smiling steadily, and Claudia realized why he was
so pleased. By banding together in an illegal act for the
protection of an abused child, the company had been
infused with a new spirit. They had become united. They
were no longer strangers, and Danny's presence was the
symbol of their determination to work together for the common good.
Oregon no longer seemed a distant, impossible
dream, but a practical reality.
Henry St. Clair was bored and frustrated. It
took little effort to follow the wagon train, which was
moving even more slowly since the company had grown to more
than two hundred people. Sometimes, in his eagerness
to push ahead, he became a trifle careless, and on
several occasions he had not only come within sight of
die tail end of the caravan, but had actually seen
Tonie Mell riding on her monitor rounds.
A map he'd purchased at a country
store near the Ohio-Indiana border proved
helpful, and eased his situation. A study of the map
convinced
Mm
that Sam Brentwood would be forced to continue using the
road that ran parallel to the Ohio River. There was
literally no other trail big enough.
So Henry sometimes dawdled for a day or two,
setting animal traps in order to test his skill,
then feasting on roasted meat. It was no problem
to give the
caravan a head start of two days, then catch up
again within a few hours.
Sometimes Henry augmented his stolen wardrobe with new
purchases made at small general stores.
Chief among them were a pair of sturdy boots and a
marvelously sharp double-edged knife. His stolen
gelding was ordinary, and he wanted a more spirited mount,
but he knew better than to resort to theft again. Men
to this semi-wilderness were utterly dependent on their
horses, and the robber who dared to take a man's
horse was hunted down by a determined posse and
hanged without benefit of a trial.
It was far preferable to buy a new mount. Wander-
nig away from the river one day while
killing a few hours, Henry came to a farm where
horses were sold. Eagerly seizing his
opportunity, he traded his gelding and.a sum of
cash for a strong, two-year-old stallion. His
mental state unproved, but his new horse covered
ground so quickly that he had to find additional ways
to fritter away his time.
He was almost sorry that circumstances had caused him
to flee the wagon train. Had he remained a
member of the company he could have found ways to slow the
journey. But he reminded himself that patience was still his
greatest virtue. One of these days luck would turn
in his favor, and he-would have the opportunity
to destroy the train completely. Certainly he'd
recognize his chance when it came his way.
In the meantime he needed a better weapon than his
stolen pistol, which was cumbersome and unreliable. The
few muskets he'd seen for sale were secondhand
firearms that didn't interest him. What he
wanted was a modern, accurate rifle of the type
manufactured in England for the Royal Army. Even
the new American guns being made in Connecticut
were inadequate. Sooner or later he'd have a
direct confrontation with Sam Brentwood, and when that
time came he'd need a gun that would shoot
true.
Henry's wishes soon were fulfilled. One day,
allowing the wagon train to gain a good start, Henry
meandered north into Hie hill country on the
Ohio-Indiana border. After an aimless ride of
an hour or two he came to a farm. A hand-lettered
sign on the gate advertised poultry and smoked
bacon for sale. Bacon would be useful, Henry
decided, so he opened the gate and rode up to the
unpainted one-story farmhouse.
He met the proprietor and his wife, a young,
attractive couple, and told them his mission. They
welcomed him and invited him into their combined living
room-dining room.
"You got here just in time, mister," the farmer said.
"I'm heading into town to buy some pigs, that's how good
business has been lately. How much bacon can you
use?"
Henry scarcely heard hull. Resting on the
mantel was a superb rifle, obviously made hi
the English Midlands within the past five years.
How, he wondered, could a man in this remote part
of the American hinterlands have come into possession of such
a fine weapon?
"Uh-ten pounds of bacon, please,"
Henry said, his mind racing. Somehow he had to obtain
possession of that rifle.
"Do you come from these parts?" the wife asked as
her husband went ofi to the smokehouse to fetch the meat
She was young, pretty and blonde. Henry would
have-enjoyed a mild flirtation with her had his mind not
been otherwise occupied. "Fm from Cincinnati,"
he said. "I'm making a surveying trip for a land
company." .
"That so?" she said. Surveyors were everywhere these
days.
When the husband returned with the slab of bacon,
wrapped in burlap, Henry paid
Mm
the seventy-five cents he asked for. He wondered
whether to make an offer for the rifle. No, the risk
was too great. Even an ignorant American
peasant was certain to realize the value of such a
fine weapon. If the man refused to part with it, which
seemed likely, it would be difficult to steal the
rifle without placing himself under suspicion.
Henry thanked the couple, walked back to his
horse, placed the bacon in one of his new
saddlebags and rode off, after closing the front
gate behind
him
When he was out of sight of the house, he doubled back
through the woods behind it, halting at a vantage point
from which he could see the path leading to the gate. He
didn't have long to wait Soon he saw the fanner
hitch a team of horses to a large cart and drive
off, just as he'd said he would do.
Waiting a quarter of an hour to be on the safe
side, Henry dismounted, cocked his pistol and
approached the house on foot. Just before he reached the
front door it opened and the pretty housewife
emerged.
She recognized the intruder and started to speak, but
something in his expression frightened her. She took a
single step backward.
Henry would have preferred to negotiate with her, if
possible, or at least to leave her unharmed. As
he'd remarked to Sir Edwin at then" last meeting,
his reputation didn't do him justice. He never
enjoyed bloodshed for its own sake.
But the young woman left him no choice: She'd be
able to describe him in detail to the authorities
if he simply bound and gagged her.
He raised the pistol at short range and put a
bullet into the center of her forehead.
He was already in motion before she crumpled to the ground.
He leaped over her body, went inside the house,
snatched the rifle from its place on the mantel and
looked around for the ammunition. Aware of the
Americans' habits, he soon found a box of
bullets in the hutch.
Returning the way he'd come, Henry stepped ovet
the woman's body without looking down, hurried
to his waiting stallion and headed west He rode
hard for the better part of the day, avoiding roads when
he could. He was certain he had crossed
into Indiana, and that was all to the good. There were different
sheriffs here, and little coordination between law enforcement
authorities of one state and another.
Still, it was best to take no chances, so he rode on
until almost midnight. He had left the wagon
train far behind now, but that would enable him to rest for
several days until the caravan caught up with him.
It
was.far more important to elude an Ohio sheriff
and his deputies. In fact, Henry decided,
he'd move on again as soon as he and his stallion
had rested.
His own supplies of gunpowder were ample. As he
loaded the rifle he felt a sense of
elation. The weapon, known as the needle gun, had
been invented eight years earlier by Johann von
Dreyse of Berlin. The British had been the first
to recognize its efficacy. Manufacturing their
own version of it, they had already equipped most
English regiments, while the Prussians had
only recently become aware of its accuracy.
Henry St. Clair would have chosen it over any other
rifle on earth. He felt certain now that his luck
had changed. He doubted that there could be more than a
dozen or two such guns in the whole United
States and, miraculously, he had possession of
one. With such a gun tucked under his arm, he believed
himself invincible.
Shortly after the wagon train halted for the night,
Sam Brentwood found recent deer tracks at a
nearby salt lick, so a larger than usual
number of men went hunting with him. Ordinarily
Tonie Mell would have been eager to join them, but today
she had other plans.
She was covered with a film of dust, so she went to a
small stream that flowed into the Ohio. There, in an
area the women had reserved for themselves, she bathed and
washed her hair. Then she returned to her wagon and
changed into the new moss-green dress
she'd finally completed. It fitted her perfectly,
hugging her supple
body. She reflected that her aunt would be proud of
her accomplishments.
All at once a thought occurred to her: it should have
been obvious. For all practical purposes her
aunt and uncle were her parents. The mother and father in
St. Petersburg whom she could scarcely remember
had brought her into the world, to be sure, but she'd
discharged her obligation to them when she had attempted
to follow the orders of the
chargi d'affaires
of the Imperial Russian Legation in Washington.
Although Russian by birth she was as much an
American as any other member of the wagon train.
She felt no regrets that her conscience had forced
her to rebel against the Imperial Russian
government and come to the aid of her fellow pioneers.
The simple act of changing from her buckskins into a
dress gave her a different perspective on herself
and her situation. She might be able to ride and shoot
lie a man, but she was still a woman, and an
American woman, who owed her loyalties to her
aunt and uncle and to the United States.
The oppressive feeling of guilt that had
burdened her for weeks was lifted from her. She had
sacrificed more for her natural mother and father than they
had ever done for her, and now she owed them nothing. The
time had come to think of herself, and of her own future.
This journey had been good for her, because circumstances
had forced her to dwell on her own situation. Now,
for the first time ever, she was willing to admit, if only
to herself, that she hoped to marry some day, settle down
in a home of her own and raise a
family. Doing a man's work on her uncle's
ranch, she had concealed the truth behind a screen.
"May I come in?" Cathy van Ayl called from
the far side of the wagon.
Tonie raised the flap, then self-consciously
took several backward steps.
"Don't you look nice!" Cathy's admiration was
spontaneous.
"I-I feel a little strange," Tonie confessed.
"That's because a few things are still missing. Here, try
theseae."
Although Tonie's ears had been pierced, she'd
rarely bothered with jewelry, but she obediently
slipped on the earrings-green stones that seemed to bring
out the rich highlights of her red hair.
"That's better." Cathy gestured toward the
leather clothing box that was the wagon's closest
equivalent to a chair.
Tonie sat.
The other girl put rouge on her mouth,, with touches
on her cheeks, then placed a thin coating of kohl
on her eyelids.
"Not too much, now," Tonie said, her apprehension
increasing. "I don't want to look like a harlot."
"You won't, I promise you," Cathy told her.
"You are a woman, and it's no crime to look like
one."
Tonie's laugh was shaky as she picked up the
square of burnished metal that was her only
mirror. She stared at her reflection in silence,
then thrust the square of metal aside.
"Don't you like yourself?"
"I don't know. I don't look like me."
"Ah, but you do," Cathy said. "That's the whole
point. Just watch the fuss the men make over you when
they come back from their hunting trip."
Tonie felt terrified. "I don't aim
to budge. I'm going to stay right here in my wagon."
"You'll do no such thing," Cathy said firmly.
"You're coming with me right now so you can judge for yourself."
Tonie allowed the other girl to take her
arm and half drag her outside. Inside the
circle, however, no one paid the slightest attention
to Tonie. The women, the children and the men who had stayed
behind were staring in open-mouthed astonishment at an
Indian, mounted on a small but spirited horse, who
had just entered the circle.
In his late twenties, he was tall,
broad-shouldered and sinewy. He carried himself with
great dignity, though wearing only a breechcloth of
leather, with a blanket over one shoulder. Certainly
he had never spent years in the cities and towns of the
white men. His head was shaved on both sides of his
long scalp lock, in the manner utilized by many
tribes, and there were streaks of green and yellow paint
on each side of his face. At his waist was a long
knife with a bone handle, and on his back was a container
filled with arrows, his long bow resting on his pommel.
The members of the company were gaping. They had been
told that they might eventually encounter hostile
tribes. But here was a savage on the
OhioIndiana border, and they didn't know what
to do.
Abe Ellis reacted first. He reached for his
rifle.
As she saw
him
raise it to his shoulder, Tonie re
membered that he hated all Indians, never tiring of
calling them lazy, shiftless and untrustworthy.
The warrior had raised his right arm, the palm of his
hand extending upward.
Tonie forgot she was dressed like a lady. She
threw herself at Ellis, hoping to knock him oft
balance before he could fire the shot. "Are you
crazy?" she shouted. "He's made the sign of
peace!"
Ellis staggered as the rifle discharged. The shot went
wild.
Aware of the attempt on his life, the Indian
continued to sit on his horse, his arm upraised, his
expression unchanged.
Tonie approached
him
on foot and addressed him in the language of the
Kiowa, which virtually all of the Plains Indians
understood, regardless of their tribes. People who lived
in Independence necessarily learned a number of
Indian dialects.
The warrior replied in the even more commonly used
tongue of the Cherokee. "Stalking
Horse," he said, slowly lowering his arm, "owes his
life to the squaw."
"You are Stalking Horse." Tonie hadn't
spoken Cherokee for a long time, but the language
came back to her in a rush.
"The son of Roaring Thunder, sachem of the Cherokee
of the West." He deigned to address a mere woman
not only because she had saved his life but also because only
she, of all these people, could understand what he said.
"I am Mell," Tonie said. "Why does
Stalking Horse, the son of Roaring Thunder, come to this
place?"
Some of the children were regaining their courage, though they
couldn't understand what was being said, Danny and Chet
Harris inched closer.
"Stalking Horse always keeps his promise. Many
moons ago he promised his brother, Brentwood,
that they would meet again."
Tonie laughed, then turned to the others. "He's
Sam Brentwood's friend."
Everyone began to talk at once. Only Abe
Ellis looked disgruntled.
Tonie raised her arm in a gesture similar to the
warrior's. "Welcome to the brother of
Brentwood," she intoned, then muttered
to Danny. "Quick. Bring something to eat and drink.
No matter what it is."
The best the boy could manage in a hurry was a cup
of water and a chunk of bread. Tonie took them from
him and held them out to the Indian in a traditional
offering of hospitality.
Claudia, who had witnessed the scene, was relieved
that the Indian had escaped death, but she resented the
role Tonie was playing. Above all, she was
startled by the girl's appearance, and realized she had
never done her justice. Claudia had to admit,
grudgingly, , that Tonie was actually pretty.
The warrior had dismounted slowly, then started forward
to accept the bread and water, when the hunters
returned, carrying two bucks and a doe they had
already butchered to make the meat easier to carry. -
Sam, who was in the lead, took one look at the
brave and emitted a loud, sustained war whoop, as
he jumped to the ground.
Stalking Horse let out a similar whoop, an
expression of joy lighting up his grave face.
The two men embraced, pounding each other joyously
on the back.
At first they addressed each other in Cherokee, then
Sam switched to English. "Folks," he
shouted, "this is Stalking Horse, my blood
brother for the past ten years. Wa've fought side
by side, we've explored together, we've lived
together. He swore he was going to join me on this
march, but I'd just about given him np for lost."
"I come," Stalking Horse said. "I am here."
Reverting to Cherokee, he told his friend of his
arrival. Then he drank the water and ate the bread
that Torrie had continued to hold.
Sam stared at Tonie as though he barely
recognized her, causing her heart to sink.
"Thank you, Tonie," he said, and with something far more
pressing on his mind he walked slowly toward Abe
Ellis.
The hired driver of the special wagon shrank as
Sam approached.
"Ellis," he said, "you're lucky that Tonie
Mell spoiled your aim. When Stalking Horse and
I put the knife to each other and mixed each other's
blood, we took an oath to avenge the death of either
of us. If you had shot him, I'd be obligated
by my word to put a bullet through you."
"How was I to know?" Ellis whined.
Still looking at the man, Sam called, "Is it
true, Tonie, as Stalking Horse
says, that he gave the sign of peace when he rode
into the circle?"
"That's exactly what he did," the girl
replied.
"Ellis," Sam said, "you're no greenhorn.
You've been dealing with Indians for years, so you
recognized the peace sign. Yet you'd have killed
him hi cold blood anyway."
"I've yet to see the Indian worth saving,"
Abe Ellis muttered, trying to show bravado.
"You've been saying for a long time that you want to get
back to Albany," Sam said. "Well, early tomorrow
morning you'll be on your way. I'll give you a
letter to Mr. Astor, in New York, so you'll be
paid in full." He turned on his heel and walked
away.
The entire company was embarrassed. The women
busied themselves roasting the meat while the men gathered in
small groups to talk.
The warrior addressed Tonie in his own tongue.
"Stalking Horse will remember what the squaw has
done for him."
"So will I," Sam added in English. He still had
made no mention of the radical alteration in her
appearance. Instead he conferred briefly with
Ernst von Thalman and Dr. Martin, whom he was
treating as his lieutenants. "I'm going to offer the
job of driving the special wagon to Nat
Drummond," he told them. When they gaped at
him, he said, "It makes sense. His wife
drives their wagon, so he has nothing much to keep
him occupied. But in spite of her bad opinion of
him, he knows horses, and he's handled a lot of
carts over the years. What's more, I'm sure he
can use the wages that Astor will pay him."
"He'll accept," the Baron said, "but not because of
the money. In the special wagon, he won't have
to listen to his wife all day."
Sam went off to join Stalking Horse, and Von
Thai- man began to supervise the preparation of the
venison, which needed to be cooked more slowly than other
kinds of meat.
Tonie Mell stood alone, nursing her rebuff
and wondering whether she should go to her wagon and change
back into her buckskins. Her attempt to emerge,
from her cocoon had been a failure, in spite of
Cathy van Ayl's encouragement, and
s
only her pride kept her from crying. Perhaps the
dramatic arrival of Stalking Horse
had diverted attention from her transformation, but she
couldn't use that as an excuse. Men simply
didn't think of lier as a woman, and that was that.
Tonie began to make her way unobtrusively
around the edge of the crowd. But someone blocked her
path. It was Dr. Martin. He looked her up and
down slowly, his eyes showing his appreciation. "You
look lovely," he said.
Tonie felt as though liquid fire had been
injected into her veins. Rooted to the spot, her
face burning, she didn't know what to say. One
thing was certain: she'd get to work on the other
dresses. Hereafter, she'd wear women's clothes every
evening.
Abe Ellis left the camp before sunrise, riding
a spare horse he'd purchased from an Ohio
farmer. An hour later the caravan was on the move
in the opposite direction, a proud Nat
Drummond driving the special wagon, a task
he performed with flawless ease.
Stalking Horse joined Sam in the vanguard, and
Tonie returned to her regular duties as
monitor of the line. She was deluged with complaints.
Claudia reported that she couldn't locate a
gold Jocket containing a miniature
portrait of her late mother. Grace Drum-
mond said that her best carving knife was missing.
Emily Harris was disturbed because a large smoked
ham had vanished from her meager larder. Even Baron
von Thalman was upset. He couldn't find his
finest gold cufflinks. Others had suffered
losses, too:
At noon, when the wagon train halted to eat and
rest, Tonie went to Sam Brentwood with the
complaints. "I hate to make accusations," she said,
"but there must be a thief in the company. If just a
couple of people misplaced things, it could be accidental.
But with so many on the same day, it becomes
suspicious."
Sam wasted no time. He questioned each of the people who'd
lost property, then returned to the head of the line and
summoned Tonie, Dr. Martin and the Baron. "I
want you to go on without me," he said. "I should
rejoin you no later than tomorrow night. Meantime,
Ernie, you'll be acting wagonmaster. Keep
Stalking Horse beside you, and know you can rely on him
as you'd rely on me. Tonie can translate if
you need his help."
"I assume," Dr. Martin said, "that you're heading
back to search for Abe Ellis."
Sam nodded. "I can't prove he's a thief, at
least not yet. But I find it mighty odd that a
dozen people in the train are missing property just after
he's left us."
"Why not let us hunt for him and you go on with the
train?" the Baron asked.
"This is a task for a man who can cover ground in a
hurry, and I'm that man," Sam said.
He filled one pocket of his buckskin shirt with
ammunition and the other with jerked venison. Then, even
before the caravan resumed its march, he rode off
toward the East.
His sense of urgency was communicated to his
stallion. The great beast thundered down the river road
at a gallop. In an hour they reached the site of the
previous night's camp, and a short time later
Sam picked up the trail of a lone horseman.
It had to be Ellis. The hoofprints in the dirt were
plain, thanks to a light rain that had fallen during
the night, so Sam was forced to reduce his pace only
slightly.
Late in the afternoon the tracks multiplied. He
dismounted to study them, and soon he figured out what
had happened. The rider had met two other
horsemen, and all three had headed toward
the East. There were no clues to the identities of the
newcomers, but at least Sam knew that he was
outnumbered.
Shortly before sundown the tracks vanished from the
road. The three men had ridden away from the river
through knee-high grass. It was more difficult
to follow then: trail now, since dusk had fallen,
but the task offered
hi*
no serious challenge, and Sam reflected that it was
easier to follow these white men than it had been
to pursue renegade Apache above the timberline in
the Rockies.
He had to slow his pace considerably, however, and
occasionally he was forced to dismount to examine flattened
grass and broken twigs. Night came, a partial
moon rose and the trail led into deep woods of
pine,
elm and maple. The stallion advanced very slowly
now, the occasional touch of his master's hand on his
flank cautioning him, and his boob made no sound on
the soft, mossy turf.
Sam automatically checked his rifle and pistols
to make certain that all were loaded and ready for immediate
use. He smelted the campfire long before
he saw it, and dismounted. His horse followed
obediently as he made his way forward on foot
Sam heard voices, and soon he could make out
three men sitting at a small fire in a clearing.
One was Abe Ellis. The other two were strangers.
The contents of a saddlebag were spread on the ground
beside Ellis, who was talking earnestly. "I ain't
greedy," he said, "but I got my own reasons for
wanting to get out of this part of the country fast That's why
fifty dollars will buy you everything in this bag."
One of the men took a swig from a bottle. Then he
handed the bottle to his companion, who followed his
example and passed it to Ellis.
"I want to look at the cufflinks again," the older
stranger said.
"Them and the gold locket are worth at least fifty
dollars, all by themselves," Ellis said, handing the man
two objects. "You gents are getting a bargain."
"How do we know we won't be arrested for dealin' in
stolen property?" one man demanded.
Sam had heard enough. Positive now that Ellis
had stolen the wares he was trying to peddle, he
decided the time had come to intervene.
Stepping out of the shadows into the clearing,
he
said, "You would be dealing in stolen goods. And I'm
sure none of you men want to go to prison. Including
you, Ellis. So I'll just take these things that
don't belong to any of you, and we won't bother
to prosecute commostly because it would take too long
to go all the way to the Cincinnati courthouse."
Abe Ellis' hand moved toward the pistol he
carried in his belt
"None of that!" Sam said. "Hold still!" Ellis
ignored the order.
The sound of a shot from Sam's rifle echoed through the
woods, and Ellis was thrown backward onto the
ground, a bullet in his shoulder. He screamed, then
moaned, but no one paid any attention to him.
"I suggest," Sam told the strangers, "that you
gather np the stolen articles, one at a tone,
nice and slow and easy, and drop them into the
saddlebag. That way nobody else will get
hurt."
"Sure," the older man said, his hand creeping toward
an object half-hidden in the grass.
Almost too late, Sam saw the blade of a knife
gleaming in the tight of the fire. Before the man could
pick up the knife and throw it, Sam wielded his
rifle like a club, grasping it by the
barrel, and brought the butt down on the stranger's
hand with all his strength.
The man shrieked in pain. "My God! You broke
my hand!"
"You're lucky I havent broken your neck,"
Sam said. "Yet. You lads don't appear to be
too bright Two of you are hurting because you didn't do
what you were told. When I give an order I
expect it to be obeyed."
Ellis was still moaning, and the older man was whimpering.
"You!" Sam said, looking at the other man and
drawing a pistol from his belt "Stand up!"
The younger man rose sullenly to his feet.
Sam plucked a pistol and a knife from the man's
belt and threw them into the woods. "I'm keeping you
covered; and don't you forget it. Put those belongings
back into the saddlebag yonder. One at a time. And
don't try any tricks or you'll get a
bullet in your head."
The silent man followed instructions to the letter.
Sam placed the saddlebag over his shoulder, keeping
the man covered with his pistol. "Vermin like the three of
you should be in prison," he said, "but I can't place
two hundred people in jeopardy while I haul you
all the way to Cincinnati."" He
snatched the pistol from Ellis' belt and sent it
sailing off into the woods. "Abe, I'm blamed if
I know how you'll get your shoulder fixed, and I'm
blamed if I care. It'll serve you right to rot before
you ever get back to Albany. As for you two
buzzards, anything bad that happens will be too good for
you. lust heed this warning. May the Almighty have
mercy on your souls if I ever set eyes on you
again!"
Disappearing from the clearing, he leaped onto the back
of his stallion and rode ofi through the woods, leaving
havoc behind him.
At sunrise, members of the wagon train were eating
breakfast when Sam quietly rode into their midst.
Handing Tonie the saddlebag, he asked her
to distribute the property to those who'd been robbed.
Then, offering no explanation, he shaved, doused his
head in cold water and ate some ham and bread before
leading the group on the day's march. He had not rested
since he had arisen the previous morning, but he was
cheerful, energetic and untiring all day.
X
Indiana was one of the older states of the West, having
been admitted to the Union twenty-one years
earlier in 1816. Citizens of Indiana
had enjoyed prosperity through the years, but now the
Panic of 1837 was hitting them hard. With the
shortage of money, and limited funds available
for the agricultural products on which the economy
of the state was based, silos and bams were glutted.
No one was starving, but farmers who couldn't pay their
bills were becoming increasingly disenchanted.
The grass in far-off fields looked greener than
the grass at home, and twenty-three wagons
joined Sam Brentwood's caravan in the state of
Indiana. Most of the new arrivals, like those who'd
joined earlier, had made their living from the earth.
Now, when Sam Brentwood and Stalking Horse
mounted their horses at the head of the line, they sometimes
couldn't see the wagons bringing up the
rear. Snaking along loads that curved first in one
direction, then another, they followed the course of the
Ohio River. The great wagon train inspired
awe in the few other travelers who saw it.
Occupants of passing river boats stared in
wonder, fog horns blowing in salute.
One monitor could no longer control the whole
column. Reorganizing his command, Sam appointed
two front and two rear monitors, thus
splitting the line down the middle. Tonie
continued to ride tirelessly up and down the whole
line, and the monitors were ordered to report
directly to her. It was her duty to notify Sam
when it was necessary to call a halt
The familiar music of the wagon train-the creaking
harnesses, the thud of horses' hooves, the clatter
of turning wheels-was louder now, a symphony that
could be heard for miles around.
Hunters and fishermen could no longer supply enough
food. For the first time since the start of the journey, it
became necessary to start spending the money that John
Jacob Astor and his associates had provided
for the purpose. Dr. Martin and the Baron
frequently went to nearby towns, villages and
isolated stores to buy flour and bacon, corn and
rice, dried beans and occasional sides of beef.
According to Stalking Horse, they would be coming to buffalo
country soon, and Sam was relieved. He made it
his business to identify the best marksmen in the
company. When they encountered a large enough herd of
buffalo, they would shoot enough to supply meat for many
days.
The newest arrivals, including the children, were
given the simpler duties, and were coached by the
veterans. No one took advantage of
his or her authority. Cathy van Ayl commanded a
cooking detail of thirty women. They worked together
harmoniously, and none appeared to reseat Cathy,
though she waft one of the youngest hi the group.
The word of the wagonmaster remained final in all
matters. Dr. Martin was respected because of his
profession, and people listened to the Baron, too, but because
of his skills instead of his wealth. All pioneers were
equal.
The faith of Andrew Jackson and the men who had
financed this expedition was being justified. A small
army was on the march, its members optimistic,
looking forward to the day when new homesteads could be
built in Oregon.
A few wouldn't go that far. Sam Brentwood
planned to stop in Independence, where he would set up
a supply depot. Tonie Mell had planned
to go only as far as her uncle's ranch, although she
found herself wondering if she shouldn't go all the way.
Claudia Humphries still dreamed of returning
to New Haven. And Arthur Elwood complained about
the hardships. And hardships there were aplenty, for all
of them.
Of the newcomers, one was a man of some mystery. Ted
Woods was a blacksmith by trade.
Endowed with a powerful torso and arms,
he
was a welcome and useful addition. Now, when
horses needed to be shod, Ted Woods did it.
Taciturn and withdrawn, he refused to discuss his
background. It was enough, he said, that he was going to the
Oregon country.
It was obvious, however, that he was very poor. His
wagon was ramshackle and his horses were painfully
thin. He appeared to be carrying few personal
possessions and little food. He always refused cash
for his services, and asked for payment in flour,
bacon and coffee. His complexion was so pale that many
wondered if he had been ill, but he answered few
questions.
Danny, who worked as hard for the newcomers as the
veterans, was the first to penetrate the mystery. Riding
beside Claudia one morning, he announced casually,
"I think I got me that Woods figured out. Some
of the Indiana folks got a suspicion about him,
but he's so ornery they don't like to talk about it out
loud."
"Perhaps you shouldn't, either," Claudia said.
"Oh, I ain't spreadin' no tales, Miss
Claudia! Not me. What I got to say
is b'twixt us, and you can decide if you want
to tell Mr. Sam." The boy took a deep
breath. "One o' them farmers from northern Indiana
let on that he read in a newspaper about a murderer
being was let out o' prison after serviu' ten years.
He don't rightly remember the feller's name, but
he swears the man was a blacksmith afore he got
sent to jail."
Claudia felt uneasy. A long term in
prison would certainly account for Ted Woods'
pasty skin. "Did you find out who he killed, or
why?"
"No, Miss Claudia. The farmer was so busy
packin" up for this here trip that he didn't pay much
mind to the piece in the newspaper. He wishes now
he'd read it better, but he's keepin' his mouth
shut and I don't blame him. That Woods looks
like he could tear a man apart with his two bare hands if
he got riled up."
"Don't mention this to anyone, Danny," Claudia
said, and extracted a solemn promise from him.
She thought about Danny's information all day, and that
evening she went privately to Sam. "I don't
know what you might want to do about this," she said, "but you
have the right to know."
He nodded, looking off into space, then bent down and
plucked a blade of tall grass, which he tasted
experimentally as she told the story. "You're sure
Danny has no intention of spreading this tale?"
"I'm positive!"
"Obviously you don't intend to talk about it, either."
"Hardly."
"Then I won't do anything. We'll see how
Woods works out. If he made a mistake,
he's paid for it and deserves a chance to begin a new
life, free and clear."
"I quite agree," Claudia said, "though I must
confess that the thought of having a murderer in the company
makes me uneasy."
"It all depends on how you use words," Sam
replied. "I've killed more than a few men to my
day, but I haven't been branded a murderer. There
are different rules in the wilderness than in
civilized places, and I wouldn't want to condemn
a man without knowing what he did and his reasons for
doing it. In this case, even if Woods killed
somebody, it's none of my business-provided he
behaves himself as a member of the wagon train."
Claudia had to admit that Sam was being fair, but
thereafter she couldn't help watching Ted
Woods surreptitiously. He sat alone at
meals, eating quickly and
then retiring to his wagon. He had rebuffed so many
friendly overtures that the other pioneers gave him a
Wide berth, which he appeared to prefer. He worked
quickly and expertly when someone needed a horse shod,
and he proved himself equally proficient when the
metal rim of a wagon broke or had to be
rejoined or replaced.
Danny, who was friendly with everyone, made it his
business to gather extra fodder for Woods' team.
Them horses is too skinny," he told
Claudia, "I got TT" put some meat on their
bones."
Woods was aware of Danny's efforts but ignored
Him
Claudia decided that Woods was too surly and
ungrateful to deserve Danny's gestures, but she
refrained from expressing her opinion to the boy. It
would be wrong to curb his generous nature, she
decided, but she was prepared to intervene if Danny
seemed threatened in any way.
One hot, sultry day, when Sam called an
early halt because the air was so humid that the horses
were suffering, Danny, the Harris boys and
several other youngsters went for a swim in a nearby
lake, as the adults relaxed on the grass,
enjoying the unexpected respite.
Soon, high clouds formed overhead, gradually
becoming darker. Thunder sounded in the distance. A heavy
rain was coming, the fanners told each other, and after it
passed the air would be less sultry. The men
bestirred themselves, tethering their horses, making certain
the canvas tops of their wagons were secure.
Only the boys cavorting in the lake ignored the
gathering storm.
When Cathy van Ayl screamed, the company was
electrified. But Cathy was so frightened she could
only point.
A long, dark shape had emerged from the clouds.
"A twister!" a man cried out in a thunderstruck
voice.
Enormous at the top and slimming to a narrow tail
at the bottom, it vaguely resembled a mammoth
carrot Ripping up trees, sucking in dust and
debris as it whirled, it became ever more ominous and
threatening as it moved at lightning speed toward the
campsite. Its power was enormous, and the whole
company was paralyzed. No defense against the swift,
brutal power of a cyclone had ever been
devised, and Sam Brent- wood could only shout,
"Hug the ground!"
Only a few had the presence of mind to drop to the
ground. Others remained sitting or standing, and could
only gape as the black funnel swept toward
them. A handful began to pray, but the others were too
stunned by the evil, howling wind mass that raced toward
them. The boys in the lake managed to scramble
to safety- all except Danny.
A large maple tree on the bank of the Ohio was
sucked up into the vortex and vanished from sight
Horses neighed. Quincy, crouching beside
Claudia, whimpered and shook.
Then all at once the tornado changed directions
and swerved cross-country, missing people, wagons and
horses by no more than a hundred yards.
Before anyone quite realized what was happening the funnel
was gone. The tornado had vanished, leaving a path
of pure devastation in its wake several hundred
feet wide. The grove of cedars and ailanthus
trees that stood at the shore of the lake was gone.
Some trees were toppled, others had disappeared into the
cydone. A few were scattered across the surface of the
water like kindling.
Thunder roared and a pelting rain began to fall
in sheets. Suddenly a burly man ran at full
speed toward the lake. For a man of his bulk Ted
Woods moved with remarkable speed. Throwing himself
into the water, he swam a short distance, plunged under
the surface and came up with a body in his arms.
Only when he returned to shore, carrying a limp
burden, did the pioneers see that he was carrying
Danny. Neither then nor later did anyone ever know
whether the boy had been struck by a tree limb or
knocked off balance by the ferocious power of the
cyclone.
Ted Woods carried the boy to his own wagon, and the
first to join him there was Dr. Martin, who sprinted
across the compound. Within moments others gathered outside,
unsure if Danny was dead or alive.
Dr. Martin checked the boy's pulse, listened
to his breathing and held a phial of smelling salts
under his nose. Danny stirred, sat upright and began
to cough. He looked at the physician, then at his
rescuer, and grinned. "I ain't fond o'
twisters," he said. "Thanks, Mr. Woods."
The blacksmith grunted in an effort to reassure
the boy.
"I think youTl be an right, Danny," Dr.
Martin said. "I'll check later to be
sure. Meantime stay where you are, and don't move."
"But I got chores-was
"You heard what the doc said." Ted Wood's
voice was almost as deep as the thunder that rumbled
overhead. "You'll stay where you are if I have to tie
weights to your ankles!"
Danny subsided, and the physician departed.
The blacksmith went to the rear of his wagon to inform the
group still standing in the rain. "Go on about your
business," he said, sounding angry. "The boy needs
to rest"
The crowd dispersed. The storm lasted another naif-
hour, then cleared away. Soon the sun came out
again. Only the path cut into the landscape as though by a
giant scythe was left as a reminder of the cyclone.
Supper was delayed. It took time for the firewood
to dry, and a number of people wandered back to Ted
Woods' wagon, but he shooed them away with curt,
threatening gestures. Danny was asleep, and the
blacksmith sat near him, keeping a silent
vigil, allowing no one but the doctor to enter.
When supper was ready and the blacksmith didn't join
the company, several of the women took food to his
wagon. Woods glowered at them. "When I'm
hungry," he said, "I'll eat The doc
says the kid needs rest, so leave him be."
Later, when the last embers of the fire died away,
Ted Woods was still sitting, keeping watch.
The next morning, after Dr. Martin gave his
reluctant consent, Danny resumed his chores.
Display
ing his customary energy, he seemed no worse for his
experience. He didn't know what had happened, he
told his many well-wishers. His only memory was
seeing the cyclone move toward him.
Ted Woods ate his breakfast alone.
When camp was broken and the wagons began to form for the
new day's journey, Danny came up
to Claudia, already seated on her boards. "If you
don't mind, Miss Claudia," he said, "I'm
goin' to hitch me a ride with that Woods feller
today. I figure maybe he needs some comp'ny."
Claudia's quick smile sent him on his way.
As the boy climbed up beside him, Ted Woods paid
no attention. Danny waited until the wagon was
moving before he broke the silence. "Your team is
gettin' fatter."
"I've noticed," the man said.
They rode for a time before Danny spoke again. "You
saved my life."
Ted shrugged.
Although the day was warm the boy broke into a cold
sweat. "You was in jaiLike"
Ted Woods nodded.
"How come?"
"You're too young to understand."
"I been around. Try me."
"I shot my wife. And my brother. I thought I
had good cause. The judge said he was sorry, but
he sent me to prison for ten years anyway."
Danny digested this information. "I won't tell
nobody. What my friends say to me is private."
The man ran a brawny hand through his thick,
black hair, and for the first time since he joined the
expedition he smiled, relaxing his facial
muscles. "We're friends, are we?"
"You bet!" Danny replied. His enthusiasm would
not be denied.
They exchanged no additional words that day.
When they halted in the afternoon Danny went off to his
chores with his usual gusto. A wagon ownet came
to Ted, needing a new shoe for one of his horses. The
blacksmith lighted a fire in his portable burner,
accepted the metal shoe the man handed him and soon
had the task done.
"I reckon I owe you some flour and bacon," the
man said.
Ted shook his head. "Yon don't owe me
anything," he said, and turned away quickly, ending the
conversation.
That evening, at supper, he took his place alone
in the shadows at the outer edge of the campfire. Although
a number of people wanted to invite him to join them, they
decided it was best to respect his privacy.
Danny, however, felt no inhibitions. Carrying a
chunk of dripping meat and a slab of bread, he
made a place for himself beside the blacksmith.
Neither spoke, but they seemed to enjoy each other's
companionship, with no need for words. No one was
surprised, that night, when Danny rolled up in his
blanket in a corner of Ted Woods' wagon.
Thereafter they were inseparable.
Ted Woods remained aloof from the company,
consistently refusing to accept money for his services.
And when he sometimes chopped down a dead tree fot
firewood he worked so quickly that no one was able
to help him.
Cindy struck the wagon train with a force almost as
great as the tornado. She was a member of a party of
forty, traveling in her own sturdy wagon,
who had crossed the river in flatboats from
Louisville, and traveled upriver to meet the
wagon train. There were three hundred and fifty people
in the wagon train now, and from the moment of her
arrival Cindy was one of the more conspicuous.
In her early twenties, she had waist-long red
hair that glowed when the sun fell on it, and the green
of her deep eyes was enhanced by a liberal use of
cosmetics. Her skin-tight green satin dress
was cut to reveal every line of her ripe body, and
created a sensation. She had a way of wriggling her
hips that caused every man in the company to stare at her.
The girl's mere presence outraged many of the women,
and both Cathy van Ayl and Lena Malcolm thought
she should be sent on her way. But some of the older
women were more tolerant. "Leave her be," Grace
Drummond said. "I've got no call against her,
unless she makes eyes at Nat."
Emily Harris was equally philosophical.
"We've got to give her a chance," she said.
Tonie Mcll calmly agreed.
Claudia instinctively disliked the new arrival.
From the moment Cindy joined the caravan, she
secretly agreed with her sister that a disruptive
force had been added. She took care
to keep her opinion to herself, however, principally because
she didn't want Sam
Brentwood to think she was jealous of a trollop.
He made Cindy welcome, as he did everyone
else who joined. Claudia knew he believed every
newcomer had a right to a fair trial.
Cindy did her best to become friendly with the women, but
was prepared for their rebuffs and didn't seem hurt
when they shunned her. She was more cautious in her
dealings with men, which won her the grudging respect of
some members of her sex, but the task she had
assigned herself was overwhelming. She was a natural
flirt who couldn't help rolling her eyes when she
spoke to a man. And Claudia noted that Sam, like
every other male, watched her swaying hips when Cindy
walked away from the fire.
She made no secret of her background, and it
soon became common knowledge. She had gone to work in a
New Orleans bordello at a very early age.
More recently she had been the star resident of a
house in Louisville. Tiring of the life, she had
invested her considerable savings in a comfortable wagon
and a team of horses.
She put on no airs. Claudia had to admit
that. She volunteered for duty with the women,
though she cheerfully admitted that she had never cooked
a meal in her life. Cathy and Lena took an
adamant position, however, so Claudia added
Cindy to the water-gathering detail. Danny was
delighted, as was Chet Harris. Both boys would have
carried her share of the load had Cindy permitted it
But she insisted on doing her share, though she was
totally unfamiliar with the outdoors.
A few days after Cindy joined the company,
Claudia realized that the newcomer was watching her
sur
reptitiously. The scrutiny made her
uncomfortable, so she became even more remote. That
Sunday, however, while the train enjoyed its
customary day of rest, Claudia was sitting on the
back steps of her wagon, mending a skirt, when
Cindy approached her.
"Could I have a little chat with you?" Cindy spoke in the
thick drawl of the Deep South.
There was no escape. "Of course," Claudia
replied stiffly, busying herself with her sewing.
The girl sat on the bottom step. "You don't like
me," she said.
It was pointless to deny the obvious. "I don't see
what possible difference my feelings could
make."
"They make a difference to me, because you're a lady.
I've seen the way everybody looks up to you, even
Sam."
Her easy use of Brentwood's first name caused
Claudia to stiffen. She didn't know what
to reply.
"Yon don't really know me," Cindy said, "so your
only reason is because I was a whore."
A lady, Claudia thought, didn't even use that
word. "I suppose you're right," she admitted.
"It's plain that a lot of the others feel the same
way. So I thought with you I ought to bring it into the open.
Sam says it'll be two years or more before we get
to the Oregon country.i'lldie if we stay on
bad terms for that long a time."
Claudia saw that she was sincere, and couldn't help
melting a little. "I don't mean to be unkind. I
suppose it's just the way I grew up."
"Oh, I don't blame you." Cindy remained
cheerful.
"When I
walked
down the streets of Lonfevflle, ladies swept
their skirts out of my way. You'd think they
were afraid of contamination by a Jezebel." She
giggled, then sobered. "If I had wanted the kind
of life I was living, I'd have stayed in
Louisville. But I didn't Tell me what I
need to do to make all these she-cats stop hissing at
me."
Her appeal seemed genuine. Claudia realized
with a shock that the girl, in spite of her experience with
men, was almost a child. "Tor one thing," she said, "you
might try using a little less rouge. And less of that
black stuff around your eyes."
"I'd feel naked," Cindy said, and laughed.
"Just a suggestion," Claudia replied.
"But I'll do it You sound strict, like the madam of the
first place I worked in New Orleans."
Claudia had to avert her face to hide her
smile. "You might try dressing more
appropriately, too."
The girl ran her hands down her sleek, low-cut
gown of yellow silk. "You don't like this dress?"
"It might be just right for the parlor of a house in
Louisville, but on a wagon train it makes you
too conspicuous in the wrong way."
"But all my clothes are like this!" Cindy wailed.
"Besides, they cost me a fortune."
"They'll be in rags before we get as far as Still
Louis," Claudia told her. "Surely you can
understand that such gowns entice the men and cause the women
to resent you."
"What should I dor
"Buy some material-sensible, strong material-the
first time we come to a town. Then make yourself a new
wardrobe. Eventually, you can make pillow cases
and curtains out of your present gowns."
The girl swallowed. Til do it," she said, "if
youll teach me how to sew."
Claudia had no choice. She had allowed herself
to be maneuvered into a corner, and couldn't deny the
candid request for help. "Very well," she said,
"I'll do what I can."
Cindy's quick smile was radiant
She made no secret of her pending transformation.
And Sam and the Baron returned from an all-day
hunting trip with two bucks and presented her with the
skins, after treating them for her. Cindy asked
Claudia to help her cut, fit and sew the leather.
They spent a whole Sunday together, working on the
project, much to Claudia's annoyance, but she
knew of no way she could back out
To her surprise Claudia found that
Cindy, although inept at first, was eager to learn. Her
enthusiasm at least partly compensated for her lack of
ability. She acted like someone in her teens, It was
proving easy, she said, to forget her former
profession. She had toned down her use of
cosmetics, and she was sufficiently conscious of her
appearance to appear in public with a shawl draped
around her shoulders, partly nullifying the effect of
her provocative dresses.
Only her occasional comments about male members of the
caravan revealed her expert knowledge on the subject.
"I'd like to shake some sense into poor little Nat
Drununond," she said. "All he has to do
to make his wife behave is clout her a couple of
times."
She also proved illuminating on the subject of the
Baron: "Would you believe he's a very lonely
person? He hides behind all that heel-clicking and
hand-kissing, but he'd make a wonderful husband for a
woman who showed
him
a little sympathy."
She was emphatic about Ted Woods: "There's a
real man. He has a bad hurt bottled up
inside him, but hell be someone pretty
special
it
he ever gets rid of it"
When Cindy remarked about Sam Brentwood,
Claudia was resentful. "He's the best there is in
this wagon train," Cindy said. "You don't find
many men of his class anywhere. The only trouble with
him
is he's been a bachelor so long. He's set
hi his ways. But I bet I could tame him if I
had the chance." She winked, then exploded in a long
fit of giggling.
Claudia knew it was absurd to feel jealous.
She and Sam Brentwood had developed no
personal relationship, in spite of their constant
association, but she disliked the way Cindy airily
assumed that he was fair game for any woman who
wanted to win his affections. What she particularly
resented, she decided, was the girl's easy use of
his first name. She herself continued to be formal hi her
dealings with him, and it irritated her that a newcomer
could establish such friendly terms with him so easily.
But that, she told herself, was none of her business.
If the wagonmaster allowed himself to become a
victim to Cindy's obvious charms, he
would just have to pay the consequences. She had always
believed that most men preferred virtuous women, and
she clung to that conviction. If Sam Brentwood
proved foolish and vulnerable, that was none of her
concern.
Certainly she couldn't blame Cindy for sparking
to him, and vowed that she wouldn't permit the girl's
feelings to stand in the way of their own association. She
still regarded the long journey as difficult and
dreary. It was. But it would be even more unpleasant
if she allowed herself to be on bad terms with someone
who was actively seeking her friendship.
Being nice to Cindy, however, didn't mean she had
to go out of her way for Sam Brentwood. That very
Sunday, with work on Cindy's new buckskin
outfit about half completed, Claudia was cool
to Sam, returning his customary, cordial greeting
with a stiff nod.
Cindy appeared to have no idea that she was creating any
new tensions. Bubbling with enthusiasm, she showed
Sam and the Baron her handiwork on what she called
"then-was leather dress.
"I told you that you were silly to do her a favor,"
Cathy murmured to her sister, as they watched Cindy
laughing and chatting with Sam and the Baron at
the far side of the fire. "I knew you'd regret
it."
Claudia shrugged. "I don't know what you mean,
and I don't really care."
Her sister stared hard at her. "I've never known you
to be so stupid," she said, before going off to her
wagon.
The entire company retired early on Sunday
nights so they could make an early start on
Monday. If the roads were good, they might travel
as far as ten miles. There was conjecture tonight that they
might reach the first major goal, the meeting place
of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers at the little
town of Independence by late in the following fall
Cindy had long been accustomed to sleeping by day and
working by night, and she was trying to acclimate herself to her
new life. When the teenaged boys began to bank the
fire for the night, she followed the example of others
and drifted off to her own snug wagon after first bidding
Sam Brentwood a warm good night.
Men's eyes were fastened on her as she walked, but
she had known such tributes for so long that she paid
scant attention to them. She disliked being the center of
attention, and she could only hope that people soon would
accept her for what she was trying to be, rather
than for what she had been. The advice Claudia
Humphries had given her was sound, and she was doing
her best to make her appearance less flamboyant
A change of heart was more important than dress
or cosmetics, she felt, and she was satisfied
with the progress she was making.
It was still difficult to go to sleep so soon after
sunset, however,
so
she lighted two large candles and decided to sew
together the front and back panels of her new
buckskin shirt. Claudia had told her that
practice would improve her skill with a needle, and
she knew her mentor was right. After only one day of
work she was already less clumsy.
Leaving the rear flap of her wagon open to catch
any breeze that might blow in on a sultry
night, Cindy discarded her shawl and began to sew with a
vengeance. Sam had told her she would find a
general store at Cairo, if not before. She would not
only buy enough cloth there for several new outfits, but
make them herself, stitch by stitch.
It was odd, Cindy thought, that the prospect of
becoming a talented seamstress could intrigue her.
As recently as a year ago, she would have
laughed at the idea. She still had no concrete notion
of what had soured her on the life of a trollop.
Perhaps the profession had lost its savor; she had
grown tired of playing the same, inevitable scenes
with man after man, allowing them to do what they pleased with
her body, pretending they were arousing her when she was
actually bored.
Perhaps she had changed because she'd seen what happened
to girls who stayed in the profession too long. Some
of them aged prematurely, yet seemed incapable of
becoming honest women. Many drank to excess, and a
number took the risk of stealing from their clients, a
sure road to disaster. She was proud of having shown enough
common sense to get out before it was too late, and her
conviction that she was doing the right thing was unshaken. The
rough life on the road, which lacked almost every convenience
she was used to, didn't appeal to her. But unlike
Claudia Humphries, who loathed the pioneer
life, Cindy believed that in time she'd grow
sufficiently experienced to take it for granted.
Her ease in dealing with men had been one of her
principal assets. Now that same ease,
directed into other channels, would continue to serve her
well.
Footsteps sounded on the wagon stairs.
Cindy looked up to see a man standing in the wagon
entrance.
"Good evening," Arthur Elwood said. "I hope
I'm not intruding."
The familiar expression in his eyes made her
uneasy,
but she wanted to be polite. "That's all right," she
said.
"May I come in?"
"I guess so."
He took care to lower the flap behind him, and her
nervousness increased.
Neither of them knew it, but a burly figure from a
nearby wagon approached stealthily, remaining
hidden in the shadows. There, he could hear what went
on inside without being seen.
Elwood stared at the cleavage revealed by Cindy's
low-cut gown. He moistened his lips. "I've
been looking forward to paying you a visit ever since you
joined the wagon train," he said.
His meaning was all too clear, but Cindy preferred
to avoid an open controversy if she could. "I'm
always happy to chat with people at mealtime."
"I'm sure you'll agree there are occasions when a
private meeting can be much better."
Elwopd's smile was ingratiating.
"That depends," Cindy said.
"I don't like to hem and haw," he said, "so Fll
come right out with it. You're the best thing that's ever
happened to this wagon train, and I'm prepared to show
my appreciation."
The girl compressed her full lips. "No, thank
you."
"How much did your customers in Louisville pay
you? A dollar?"
She didn't deign to reply.
He thought she was teasing him into paying a higher fee.
"See here, I'm no stranger to the best houses in
Louisville, and I've never paid any girl more
than two dollars, usually for the whole night."
"Please leave," Cindy said. "You don't
understand."
"I realize that in a group like this, where you're the
onry one, you can set any figure you want, and
I'm willing to go along with that. After all, I'm in
business, too, and I believe in getting a top
price. So I'll pay you three dollars, which is
more than fair."
Cindy felt weary. "You could offer me ten. Or
even twenty. But I wouldn't take it."
Elwood laughed, sidling toward her. "Maybe you
need a little persuasion."
"Don't come near me, Mr. Elwood. Don't
touch me!" She replied softly, but there was a note
of alarm in her voice.
"I don't know what kind of game you think you're
playing," he said, "but it won't work with me. You
flaunt yourself all over the caravan. The way you
bounce up and down and wriggle your rear is enough
to drive a man crazy. So stop all this
damn-fool pretending."
"I've done nothing deliberately to attract
anyone, and I'm sorry if that's what I did
to you," Cindy said. "You'll have to take my word that I
didn't mean it the way you think."
He laughed and reached for her. "You're clever as they
come," he said.
She dreaded a scene. It would be the talk of the
caravan for days and further damage her already
tarnished image. Still hoping to persuade him to behave
sensibly, she allowed him to fondle her breasts
while
she spoke to him earnestly. "I'm not in a
Louisville house any more. I'm heading out to the
Oregon country to make a new life for
myself, just like the rest of you. All I ask is that you
leave me alone."
His hands became busier.
The girl knew from experience that the time for words was
past. He was becoming excited, and not listening to a word
she was saying. "That's enough! Take your hands off
me!"
Elwood grasped her buttocks and hauled her
close.
Cindy was no weakling, but she realized that he was
stronger, so she had to resort to drastic means.
Struggling hard in an effort to free herself from his
grasp, she managed to bend down sufficiently
to snatch her sewing scissors from the table beside her.
Pressing the point of the closed blades against his
chest, she raised her voice for the first fime.
"Mister," she said, "I'm not fooling. Stop right
now or you're going to get hurt. I'll scream,
too, and when people come running I'll tell them you
tried to rape me!"
The point of the scissors cut through his shirt and
broke his skin. It was the pain rather than her words that
penetrated his consciousness. His hands fell to his
sides. As he saw a smear of blood spreading
across the front of his shirt, he gaped in
disbelief.
Cindy was ready to strike again. "Get out!" she said.
"Don't come back, that's all. There's no hard
feelings!"
"You goddamn bitch!" Elwood's chest was still stinging
and he was furious.
"Call me any names you like, mister. Just keep your
distance, and we'll get along fine."
He stamped out, cursing under his breath.
Cindy fastened the flap behind him, making it secure.
Not until his fading footsteps could no longer be
heard did she begin to weep. Claudia
Humphries was right: the way she dressed still gave
some men the wrong idea. She knew she would have no
real peace until she put together a new wardrobe.
It was tempting to blame Elwood and all the others
like him for what had just happened, but she had to accept
part of the responsibility. To hell with men like that;
she'd show all of them. She threw herself onto her
mattress, still fully clad, and after a time she
slept.
Danny was still awake when Ted Woods returned
to the ramshackle wagon, his movements remarkably
quiet for a man of his bulk. Woods wrapped himself
in his blanket, and a chuckle rumbled up from
within him.
It was the first time Danny had heard him laugh, but
there" was no joy in the sound. The boy couldn't quite
analyze what he had heard. All he knew was that
Ted seemed to be experiencing a sense of grim
satisfaction.
XI
The addition of the Indiana newcomers to the caravan
changed the nature of the expedition. Most of them used
oxen rather than work horses to draw their wagr ons.
These patient, gentle animals foraged on the high
grass, as did the horses, but they lumbered along
the trail at a much slower speed, and now Sam
Brent- wood was satisfied if they covered as much
as eight or ten miles in a day. In spite of their
strength the oxen needed more rest than the horses, so a
longer halt was called at midday. This pause
became known as "nooning," and most of the pioneers
welcomed the respite.
Most drivers, not wanting to inhale the dust kicked
up by the iron-rimmed wheels in front of them,
instinctively fell back and allowed gaps of up
to a hundred feet to develop between wagons. This, in
turn, made the entire procession less
manageable, and at times the line stretched out
on the river road for a distance of two miles.
Tonie Mell and hfletter assistants
worked hard to keep a more compact formation, and hoarse
shouts of "Close those holes! Move smartly,
now!" were heard all day.
A majority of the vehicles were the bulbous-topped
prairie schooners used by others on shorter
journeys for the last quarter of a century. But there was
a scattering of lighter wagons in the line, and their
presence caused problems. Known as "Dearborns,"
they were hard-topped, with canvas sides, and held
only a fraction of the household goods and other
belongings that could be jammed into the larger vehicles.
Named for former Secretary of War Henry
Dearborn, who was said to have designed the first of them,
they were much cheaper than the prairie schooners. But
they lost wheels more frequently, sometimes broke their
wooden axles on ruts in the road and jolted their
occupants unmercifully as they bounced along the
trail.
The Dearborns were barely large enough to house childless
couples; a number were occupied by men or women
traveling alone. Even their owners soon regarded
them as a nuisance, but there was no practical way
to exchange them for heavier wagons. As
Sam said, "We're stuck, so well have to make do
with what we've got."
The very size of the train created difficulties.
Stalking Horse took over the role of scout and
ranged as far as two to four miles ahead of the
caravan. Sam remained the undisputed head of the
expedition, but there were so many people in the company now that
families began to bicker with their neighbors over
inconsequential matters. "We need some sort of
self- government, so folks will keep the peace,"
Sam said.
An election was held. Ernst von Thalman
became president and Dr. Martin vice
president. It was their duty to adjudicate
arguments and insure that every member of the expedition
carried a fail share of the work load. Their task was
thankless, but they took their new
responsibilities seriously and made no
complaint.
No one worked harder than Tonie Mell. She
moved untiringly from the front of the line to the back,
goading the laggards, closing gaps, exhorting,
cajoling and, when necessary, issuing crisp instructions.
She was the one person every member of the company came
to know, and she estimated that she rode at
least forty miles each day.
By the time evening came she was exhausted, but she
insisted on changing from buckskins into her feminine
attire. Sam saw to it that she did no evening work,
and she sat at the campfire, earing and relaxing with people
at whom she had bellowed earlier in the day.
Late one sultry afternoon, camp was made
opposite the city of Louisville, and Sam
announced that the party would remain there for thirty-six
hours. Those who wished could cross the river by ferry
the following day and purchase any goods they might be
lacking. Louisville, he emphasized, was the last
major metropolitan center they would be able
to visit on their long trek across the continent.
There was nothing Tonie wanted in town, so she
slept late, an unaccustomed luxury. Cathy
van Ayl had saved some bacon and biscuits from
breakfast for her, and Tonie heated them over the
fire. While she
was eating, perching on a rock, she was joined
by Cindy, who had good reasons of her own for wanting
to avoid Louisville.
Never had Tonie known such a person. As they
chatted aimlessly it occurred to her that Cindy, in
spite of her experience in dealing with men, was
naive, almost childlike. Certainly her daydreams
of what lay ahead were false.
"Ill bet the scenery in the West is beautiful,"
Cindy said.
"I only know it as far as Independence, where it's
about the same as it is here. A big river and lots
of trees. It gets cold hi the winter, and in the
autumn and spring there's more rani than most people want
to see."
"I was thinking about the mountains."
"I don't envy those of you who've going all the way
to Oregon," Tonie said. "I've met a lot of
trappers and hunters who've spent time in the
Rockies, and I don't for the life of me see how
a whole wagon train can get across those peaks."
"It should be exciting."
"It'll be dangerous." Tonie, afraid she'd
sounded curt, softened her attitude. "Whip
Holt will be in charge after Sam sets up his
supply depot to Independence, and from what I've
heard about Whip, there's no better guide
anywhere."
"I don't know how those mountain men can go for months
at a time without women," Cindy said. "It doesn't
seem natural."
Tonie didn't know anything about the physical
needs of men, but felt she had to offer some sort of
explanation. "People who live close to nature aren't
like city folks."
"They're not all that different. Look at you. Every
day you ride up and down the line until I get
dizzy just watching you. But at the end of each day you
put on a pretty dress. So you know there are men
on this train. Or maybe there's one in particular you
want to impress."
Tonie felt her face bum. The girl was being a
little too perspicacious, and she didn't know what
to reply. Before she could speak, however, a man wearing
a black suit, a clean white shirt and
well-shined shoes strolled toward them. Apparently,
he'd been a passenger on the ferry from
Louisville.
Cindy instantly jumped to her feet, smoothed her
skirt and turned away. "I'm not sure if he's
somebody I once knew in Louisville," she
muttered, "and I don't want to take the chance that
he might be." She hurried off to her own wagon.
Tonie continued to eat as the man approached her.
He bowed, his manner a trifle formal. "I was
told that you're Mrs. Mell," he said.
Tonie stiffened, She had dropped the fiction that she
was a widow since confessing the truth to Sam, and
everyone in the train knew her by her first name. "My
name is Mell," she replied guardedly.
"I'm eager to have a private discussion with you," he
said, not introducing himself. "Is it possible for us
to talk here?"
"I'm listening," she said. "Who are you?"
"My identity doesn't matter all that much."
Studying him, she decided he was nondescript, a
short, graying man who'd be lost in a crowd.
"We have some mutual friends in Washington City,"
he said, and smiled.
Tonie remained grave. "I have no friends there."
"At a certain legation."
Her guess had been correct. The Russian
chargf d'affaires
had sent an emissary to check up on her. She
looked around. They were alone at the fire. A few
children were playing about a hundred feet away, but there were
no adults within earshot.
The man misinterpreted her look. "Perhaps we'd be
wiser to walk into the woods where no one will overhear
us."
"I'm staying right here," she said, a strong
hint of belligerence in her voice.
He coughed nervously, then spoke in a lowered
voice. "Our mutual acquaintance is eager
to receive a report from you to send on to his superiors.
You needn't make it in writing. He understands the
delicacy of your situation. Just tell me whatever it
is you've been doing, and I'll pass along the
word."
"I have nothing to report." Tonie was seething.
The man raised a gray eyebrow. "Surely
you're joking, Mrs. Mell."
"I don't work for your employers. They mean nothing
to me, and I want no part of them!" She realized
her self-control was slipping, but she no longer
cared.
He stared at her in disbelief. Anyone familiar
with the
Cheka
knew that these highly favored representatives of the
Czar regarded a defection as the most seri-
ous of offenses. People who defied the organization,
even if they lived far from Russia, had been known
to die of mysterious causes.
Tonie guessed from his expression what was going through
his mind. "I was blackmailed," she said,
"and at first I was frightened into accepting an
assignment. Since then I've changed my mind.
The Czar and everybody who works for him can go to the
devil."
"Would you deliberately cause your parents
suffering?" He sounded incredulous.
"The people I consider my parents live in Missouri,
and I can promise you my uncle would put a
bullet into the head of any
Cheka
snooper who trespassed on his property. As for the
man and woman in St. Petersburg who brought me
into the world, I haven't seen them since I was a
baby, and I've never corresponded with them. If
they're abused and mistreated after doing no wrong and
no harm to anyone, then the Imperial Russian
Government is even more despotic and rotten than
anyone in the United States knows. But they'll
find out. I'll tell this whole country the story of
what was done to me." She had no idea how to carry
out her threat, but she was too angry to care.
"Is this your final word?"
"You just bet it is. Tell that slimy worm in
Washington not to bother me again!"
The man bowed again, his eyes glittering.
"As you wish, madam," he said. "I'm glad that
you, not I, will pay the consequences of such
insubordination." He turned away, then stalked
back down to the ferry landing, his back stiff.
He would report the incident to the Imperial
Russian
Legation in Washington immediately, and he had no doubt
that his superiors would deal with this girl
appropriately. Nobody could treat Mother
Russia this way. God help Tonie Mell in
the months to come.
Tonie watched him leave, her rage giving way
to a sense of despair. It was true that she owed her
real parents nothing, but at the same time she hated
to cause them needless anguish. The cloud that had almost
dissipated had formed over her head again, and it did no
good to tell herself that she was an innocent pawn in a
struggle being waged by the great powers of the world for
territorial gain.
Feeling sorry for herself, she made no attempt
to stem the tears she'd held back for so long.
"Are you in distress, Tonie? Perhaps I can give
you a powder to relieve you."
She looked up hi horror to see Robert
Martin, of all people, smiling down at her.
She didn't want
him
to see her cry, but the tears continued to fall.
His smile faded and he handed her a bandana
handkerchief.
She accepted it from him, averting her face as she
dabbed at her eyes. "Thank you," she muttered,
"but please go away."
Dr. Martin made no move. "It's my job
to help people when they're in trouble. That's why I went
into Louisville early this morning, to buy various
medicines I wasn't carrying hi my kit."
"There isn't a medicine or a powder made that will
cure my problem."
"Tell me the symptoms and let me decide."
Aware
of her need to talk, a need she hadn't yet
recognized, the physician drew Tonie to her
feet.
Following his lead, she walked beside him to the
riverside. They could see the warehouses of
Louisville opposite, the church spires towering
above the lowef buildings.
Dr. Martin had mastered the art of keeping silent.
He strolled beside the girl on the bank as
though this were a social occasion.
All at once Tonie felt compelled to tell the
truth to this man, whom she admired and respected
above all others. He was thinking of her as a
patient, she knew, and not as a woman, but her
conscience would bother her unless she confessed everything
to him.
"I'm going to tell you something that only Sam
Brentwood knows," she said. "You're going
to despise me for it, but that can't be helped."
He listened without comment as she told him her story,
including the meeting with the representative that had just
ended. When she was through, she was breathless, and stood with
downcast eyes.
"I congratulate you on the stand you've taken,"
Dr. Martin said, "and I'm sure Sam feels as
I do."
"You're forgetting that poor couple to St.
Petersburg who'll be made to suffer for my sins!"
"You've committed no sins. Czar Nicholas may
be a tyrant, but he's trying to convince the world he's
the ruler of a modern, enlightened state. I
remember what you told me, but I think it
unlikely he'll ship your parents off to Siberia
without cause. That sort of thing isn't done
any more."
Tonie didn't know whether he was speaking the truth
or just trying to raise her spirits, but she was beginning
to feel better. "You don't look down on me for
deserting my mother and father when they need me?"
"I'm proud of your loyalty to the United
States, and to the aunt and uncle who reared you as their
own child."
Her skin tingled.
"My only regret is that we didn't have a chance
to talk with the man who came to see you just now. You say
he's gone back over to Louisville?"
"I saw him get on the ferry."
"Then he'll be gone by the time we could form a posse
to go after him. It's just as well, perhaps. Put him and the
Russian Legation out of your mind."
"I-I'll try." She wished she weren't so
self-conscious in his presence.
"Maybe I can be of help there, too. Why are you
all dressed up today?"
"I'm not, really." She felt like squirming. "I
get tired of buckskins, and I like to wear
dresses."
"That's natural enough. But you have no plans for the
day?"
Tonie shook her head.
"Then now you have," Dr. Martin said. "I saw what
looked like a splendid inn near the medical supply
house I visited this morning. You and I will go over
to Louisville and eat dinner there. We won't have
many meals served to us on pewter platters in the
next year or two."
She desperately wanted to go with him, but didn't
want him taking her out on a false premise.
"I'm not
planning to go to Oregon," she said. "Fm aiming to go
back to my uncle's ranch in Missouri."
"So I've heard. That's something I want to discuss
with you. I wish you'd open your mind to the possibility
of going all the way with the wagon train. You hold a
very special place in this expedition. We need you."
Had he said that he himself needed her, the matter would have
been settled then and there. "I'll be glad to have
dinner with you," Tonie said demurely, "and thank you
for asking me."
It was odd, Robert Martin thought, that this girl who
could ride and shoot like a man, who was a hellion in
her duties as monitor of the march, could be so shy and
withdrawn in a personal relationship. She intrigued
him, and he wanted to become better
acquainted with her.
Several more wagons, all drawn by oxen, crossed
the Ohio from Louisville to join the train.
Sightseers came, too, and gaped at the
pioneers. Because many members of the company were absent
for the day, those who remained in camp pitched hi
to fetch water, collect firewood and cook,
whatever their regular assignments.
No one was busier than Nat Drummond. He
had stayed behind while his wife went to the city for
blanr kets and a pair of scissors. Stronger
than his frail physique indicated, he carried
two buckets of water at a time without tiring, then
brought armloads of wood to the fire.
Cindy had volunteered to work as a cook. She had
never cooked before and Nat noted the clumsy way she
held a large skillet. Sensing that the preparation of
food was alien to her, he offered to help.
The girl was delighted. He was one of a very few men
in the company who accepted her for her own sake, never
sized her up and down with his eyes and never appeared
to be on the verge of making advances.
"Cooking," he said, placing her skillet on a
metal tripod over the flames, "is like anything
else. Just do what your common sense tells
you, and you won't go wrong-most of the time. The worst that
can happen is you'll burn up this mess of
potatoes you're fryin". Then you'd have hell's
own time scrubbin' the skillet"
Cindy laughed. "You make it sound easy."
"Most jobs are easy. There are women who like
to make them sound complicated so's to puff themselves up,
but don't pay them no heed." He refrained from
mentioning his wife by name.
As Cindy observed him, then took a long-handled
spoon to stir the potatoes, she saw Ted Woods
watching her. He was carrying an enormous load of
kindling and logs to the fire. She didn't quite know
what to make of the blacksmith, who always seemed to be
looking at her. He stared without flirtatiousness;
hi fact he just kept his eyes on her, his face
expressionless.
Here on the expedition, he was the only man she
couldn't categorize. Danny idolized him, and
Ted Woods treated the boy with gentle kindness.
She found it hard to believe that he was mean or
dangerous, though she'd heard rumors that he'd
murdered
his wife. Wanting to be accepted without prejudice
herself, she gladly extended the same
courtesy to others. Since she'd never spoken,
to Woods, except to wish him a good morning, she
had no basis for judgment. But she knew for certain
that she wasn't afraid of him, though he looked
strong enough to tear her apart with his bare hands.
Nat sliced more potatoes. After setting the cooked
batch out to drain, she refilled the skillet. The
camp was quiet; there weren't more than twenty people in
it. And as Ted Woods moved around, bringing more
water, building up the fire and otherwise making
himself useful, Cindy could feel his eyes fastened on
her.
Whenever she glanced m his direction, however, he
hastily looked away.
A number of sightseers still lingered outside the large
circle of wagons. Cindy realized that she was
attracting more than her share of attention from a pair
of young men in their early twenties. She found it
easy to ignore their comments on her physical
assets. She had heard them all before.
Bored, intent on causing mischief, the young men
began to throw stones at some of the grazing horses.
One of them heaved a rock at Sam's stallion,
left behind while Sam spent the day in
Louisville. The rock struck the
animal between'the eyes, startling him and causing him a
measure of pain. He reared, neighed a trumpeting
call, plunged forward and reared again.
Suddenly Cindy realized that she was standing directly
in the angered stallion's path, almost within reach of his
flashing hooves as he reared in the air. The girl
was so terrified she was unable to move, though
she knew she might well be trampled to death unless
she could escape to the far side of the fire.
The stallion seemed to be drawn to her as though to a
magnet, moving ever nearer. Other members of the
company had scattered.
All at once the great beast was towering directly
above her, his front legs pawing the air. When he
crashed down, she knew it would be the end of her, but
she was still too petrified to move.
Suddenly she felt herself being lifted into the air.
An instant later the stallion plunged forward again,
landing exactly where she had been standing.
Ted Woods was holding the girl in his arms as
effortlessly as though she were a small child. Then he
put her down. "Take her to one of the wagons, out of
harm's way," he told Nat Drummond,
Ted walked alone toward the raging stallion,
speaking in a voice that only the animal
could hear. A blacksmith respected a flailing
hoof, but wasn't afraid of it, and a blacksmith
knew horses, too. Yet Cindy and the other
pioneers were astonished by the giant's calm. The
stallion continued to buck.
Staying on the animal's left side, Woods
circled the -Open area beside the horse, still speaking in
a soft voice as he inched ever closer.
Cindy could scarcely breathe. Ted Woods was
obviously courageous, but even a man of his size
was no match for an enraged stallion.
Woods made his move so swiftly that the frightened
onlookers weren't aware of what he was doing until
he had done it Displaying remarkable agility and
grace for someone so big, he leaped up onto the
stallion's bare back.
Outraged, the great beast reared and plunged
repeatedly in an attempt to throw his rider.
But Woods seemed glued to his back. Curling his
arms around the stallion's neck he continued to talk,
simultaneously stroking the animal. And at last
the stallion recognized his rider as a friend.
Subsiding abruptly, the huge creature stood
still, breathing hard and whinnying.
"Danny," Ted called, "bring some of them
apples we bought at the orchard this morning."
The former bound boy walked across the open space,
apples cupped in his hands. He showed no fear,
Ted dismounted, held an apple in the palm of his hand
and offered it to the animal that had been his antagonist
only moments earlier. The stallion, completely
docile now, took the apple, then ate another and
yet another.
Ted patted him again. "You'll be all right now,
boy," he said, and walked toward the edge of the
circle.
The two young men from Louisville suddenly realized
that this bear of a man was moving toward them, though he
didn't once glance in their direction. They took
to their heels and raced toward the riverbank.
Woods ran after the two men. In spite of his
awkward gait he gained on them, and finally caught
them some two hundred yards away.
No one could hear what he said to them as he held
each youth in the grip of a huge hand, but his remarks
were brief. When he finished talking, he cracked
their
heads together, dropping them to the ground. Then,
seemingly unconcerned, he strolled back to the
circle of wagons.
Cindy hurried forward to meet him, still finding it
difficult'to breathe. He would have brushed past her,
pretending not to see her, but she halted directly
hi front of him, blocking his path.
"Mr. Woods," she said tremulously, "you saved
my life."
Ted was so embarrassed he looked down at the ground
and shuffled his feet. "That's all right," he mutr
tered.
"It's more than all right," she insisted.
He had picked up color on the trail, but was still
pale enough for his face to show a flaming scarlet.
Cindy had no desire to embarrass him, but wanted
to make sure he realized she was eternally grateful
to him. "I'm in your debt," she said. "I just hope
that some day I can do a favor for you."
When she had first joined the company, others would have
laughed at what they would have regarded as an obvious
invitation. But the company was learning to reassess
Cindy. They knew she was sincere, and no one
smiled.
"Hellfire, ma'am," Ted said, half under his
breath as he continued to fidget, "I'd have done it for
anybody."
"Well, you did it for me, so I thank
you." Cindy reached up impulsively to touch his
brawny arm, then quickly returned to the cooking
fire.
Ted walked to his wagon, looking at nobody,
one
hand clutching the spot on his arm that the girl had
touched.
The potatoes were rained, so the skillet had to be
scoured. No matter. Ted Woods was strange,
Cindy reflected. He'd been remarkably cool
during the crisis, Knowing precisely what to do, but
now he was behaving like a small boy. She couldn't
understand him at all. What confused her most was her
inability to make an impression on him. No other
man had ever reacted to her as Ted Woods did.
Henry St. Clair saw the three horses tethered
at the edge of the little clearing, and then he heard a man
moaning. No, there were
two
men in pain, the second grunting and gasping for
breath. Something out of the ordinary was afoot, so he
unlimbered his new rifle and rode into the clearing.
Two men were stretched out on the ground, as a third was
saying in a whining voice. "Tell me where to find a
doctor who won't ask too many questions, and
I'll do it," he said.
"Maybe I can help," Henry said, and at that
moment he and Abe Ellis recognized each other.
Ellis pointed to the bloodstained shoulder of his
shirt. "Sam Brentwood," he said, gasping,
making the name sound like a curse. "He shot me. And
he dislocated the fingers of DigbyVery hand. We've
had hell's own time here the last few hours."
Always clear-headed in an emergency, Henry
examined Ellis" wound, then looked at the hand of the
trampled man. "I may be able to offer assistance,
gentlemen," he said, paying little attention to the third
member of the party, who appeared to be useless. "But
I'll want something in return."
"We don't have much money," Digby said between
moans, "but we'll give you all we've got"
"I've no need for money." Henry was crisp.
"Ellis, do I gather you're no longer employed
by the wagon train?"
"Brentwood threw me out and sent
me
home to Albany." The reply was surly, and the man
continued to clasp his injured shoulder. "I was doing a
little business with these fellows when he rode after me and
blame near killed all of us."
There was no need for Henry to ask why Sam
Brentwood had resorted to violence. Obviously
Ellis had stolen something, or engaged in some kind of
chicanery, which was all to the good. If he handled these people
correctly, he stood to benefit. But one thing
puzzled hini: none of the trio was armed. "What
happened to your guns?"
"They're in the brush someplace, where that demon
threw them," the third man said.
Henry wondered if the man was capable of speaking in
any voice other than a whine. Digby's moans
became louder.
"Lads," Henry said, "I'm willing to make a
deal with you. I'll take care of your physical
ailments and get you back on your feet In
return, I want you to work for me-was
"Doing what?" the third man interrupted.
"I'll explain in good time, at my own convenience."
Henry St. Clair was terse. "Til buy your
food, and pay each of you fifty cents a day for the
next month or two, while I organize my
operation. Carry it off at the appropriate time, and
I'll give each of you a bonus of ten dollars.
The one thing I won't supply is your liquor."
"Your pay is as good as the wagon
train's," Ellis said, between gritted teeth. "Just
get this damn bullet out of me and I'll do anything
you want."
Digby, moaning again, could only nod his acceptance
of the terms. The third man, whose name proved to be
Lemon, quickly assented.
"Very well." Henry dismounted and went to work.
Taking a bottle of brandywine from his saddlebag,
he cleaned off a knife with it, then gave Ellis
a small swallow. "Hold him down so he
doesn't thrash around," he told Lemon. "And
Abe, try not to jerk. This won't take long, but it
won't be pleasant."
He began to probe with the sharp point of the double-edged
blade, his hand as steady and his touch as deft as a
surgeon's.
Ellis screamed, and perspiration covered his face as
he made a supreme effort to hold still.
"There it is." Henry brought the bullet to the
surface, then threw it away. Still acting
swiftly, and deliberately not warning his patient,
he poured brandy- wine into the wound, which was now bleeding
freely.
Ellis screamed again, tears in his eyes.
"Tear up a clean shirt," Henry told
Lemon, and when the man obeyed he bandaged the wound.
Ellis" pain began to subside somewhat
"You'll be sore for a few days, but you'll soon be
all right again, Abe," Henry told him. "You're
lucky you just suffered a flesh wound."
Now it was Digby's turn, and he shrank from the
Englishman. Henry lacked the patience and tact
of a professional physician. "Either you'll let
me help you, or you can go straight to the devil. Which
shall it be?"
Curbing his fears, Digby extended his hand.
Henry gave
him
a swallow of brandywine, then made a careful
examination. Telling Lemon to hold the patient,
he saw that three fingers had been dislocated. "Lean
away from me," he ordered, "and exert steady
pressure."
Grasping Digby's wrist with one hand, he pulled
hard at one finger, then at a second, and both
snapped back into place. The injured man jerked his
hand away and doubled up with pain.
"Once more," Henry said, "and that'll be the end of
it."
With great reluctance the patient extended his
hand again, then leaned away from his tormentor. Henry
snapped the third finger into place.
Trie-improvement in Digby's condition was so
rapid it seemed miraculous. He managed a
broad grin. "I don't know what you did," he
said, "but my fingers are straight again and the pain is
almost gone."
"In a couple of days the soreness in your joints will
disappear, and you won't even know there was anything the
matter with you." Henry allowed himself the luxury of a
small swallow of brandywine before carefully
replacing the bottle in his saddlebag.
He was in no hurry to resume his march in the wake
of the wagon train, and he decided to stay in this
clearing until the following morning so both injured
men could enjoy a longer rest. In the meantime there was
work to be done.
"Search for your guns in the underbrush," he told
Lemon. "After you find them, gather wood for a
fire, Then locate a brook and bring back some
water." Lemon hastened to obey.
Abe Ellis, enjoying a measure of relief,
found it difficult to hide his curiosity. "I
heard all kinds of stories about you after you left the
wagon train, Henry," he said.
"Oh?" Henry trusted no one, least of all a
discredited man,
so
he feigned little interest.
"There was talk that you were working for some foreign
government, that don't want this country to settle in
Oregon," Ellis persisted.
"Would it bother you if I were?" Henry demanded.
The former driver of the special wagon shrugged. "It
ain't no skin off my nose, one way or t'other.
I got me a house in Albany, and I don't
care what happens across a continent,"
Henry concealed his pleasure. At least one of the
trio might well make a valuable subordinate.
"I presume," he said, "that you wouldn't mind
getting even with Sam Brentwood."
"There's nothing I'd like better."
"You shall have your chance," Henry said.
Rather than follow the Ohio River to Cairo,
Illinois, where it joined the mightiest of American
rivers, the Mississippi, and then move north again
to the bustling trading post, St. Louis, Sam
Brentwood decided to take a shortcut that would
save at least two hundred miles of travel.
The one advantage of following the rivers
was that well-defined roads had been built on their
banks. Now he'd be marching across open country where
there were only a few dirt roads used by local
farmers.
But the saving was well worth the inconvenience, so the
caravan headed northwest from the Ohio River and
came to the flatlands of the Illinois prairie. There
were no hills anywhere in this endless valley.
By consulting detailed maps Sam was able to avoid
most towns and settled farmlands. He quickly
discovered one advantage to the route he had chosen.
Instead of moving in a single, long line, he formed his
wagons
into three short, parallel columns that made up in
width what they lacked in depth.
It was far easier to control these shorter lines, and
Tonie Mell needed the help of only three
assistant monitors, one assigned to each of the
lines. Experience was teaching the wagonmaster other
tricks. Since the horses were inclined to outpace the
more cumbersome oxen, he put a wagon drawn by oxen
at the head of each line, and let these heavy
creatures set the pace.
No member of the expedition had ever seen land like the
Illinois prairie, where the midsummer
grass was knee-high and there were few trees to be
seen, only patches of woods here and there. When
wood was sighted, a special detail gathered
firewood there, then caught up with the rest of the
company. Ted Woods, whose strength was so
prodigious that he could fell a treeeawitha few
blows of an ax, volunteered to be a member of this
group and turned his wagon over to Danny.
Most of the company were farmers. They marveled at the
black earth, the marvelously rich soil that was almost
completely free of rocks, much less the roots of
trees and bushes. It retained moisture for days
after a thunderstorm, or even a shower. "I reckon just
about any crop could be grown here," Nat
Drummond said one evening, sifting a handful of earth
through his fingers after supper, "Think of it. You don't
have to plow up rocks and roots. Just loosen the
topsoil a little and plant your seeds. Nature will
do the rest."
Otto van Ayl said nothing. He still retired
early, according to the habit he'd formed, and Cathy was
sur292
prised to find him still awake when she returned to their
wagon.
"I've been thinking," he said. "I'm of
half a mind to drop cmt of this train and buy some
land here in Illinois. There's no law says I'm
obliged to travel all the way to the Pacific. I
never knew there was soil like this anywhere."
Cathy felt a quick pang of regret. The first thought
that crossed her mind was disloyal to Otto and deeply
disturbing. If they dropped out of the wagon train
to settle
in
Illinois she would never see Whip Holt again. The
certainty of their meeting again at Independence had
bolstered her during many difficult hours of the long,
tiresome journey, and the realization that their paths might
not cross again dismayed her.
She had no right to dwell on Whip. Not under any
circumstances, even though she knew he was drawn
to her every bit as much as she felt drawn to him. She
was an honorable, respectable, married woman, and
she couldn't allow herself to forget it, not for a moment.
Granted she was Otto's wife in name only. They
never had intimate relations, never shared their hopes
and trembles. But in the eyes of God and man, she was
a married woman, and that was that.
She couldn't control her dreams, of course, and they
nagged at her. Night after night she found
herself dreaming that Whip would ride up to her on a great
stallion, scoop her into his arms and make off with
her. These images were so vivid they almost seemed
real, even after she awakened. She knew, of
course, that Whip was too honorable to make advances
to another
man's wife, just as she wouldn't accept them if he
did.
All the same, the prospect of seeing Whip
Holt had been the highlight of her future, and
Otto's words were so jarring, so disconcerting that Cathy
silently cried herself to sleep. In her heart she was
an abandoned woman, but she lacked the strength of character
to put the lean, handsome guide out of her mind.
The next day, while the caravan was nooning, a party
went off to a farmhouse in the distance to purchase any
produce the proprietor might be willing to sell.
Sam, who was leading the group, was surprised when
Otto van Ayl offered his services. It was the first
time the dour Long Islander had volunteered to do more
than was required of him.
The farmer proved willing to dispose of large
quantities of green beans, peas, onions and
cartloads of corn, which would be cooked for human
consumption and used for animal fodder.
Three substantial barns located behind the house were
full, and the pioneers were impressed by such evidence of
plenty.
Otto remained silent during the negotiations, but
became more animated while the farmer's sons were
loading the grain and vegetables on carts for
delivery to the train. He drew the farmer aside,
then said, "Your yields are the biggest I've ever
seen."
The man nodded complacently. "I grow double what
I raised back in Maryland," he said. "My
boys and me, we work plenty hard, but not near as
hard as we did in the East."
Otto lowered his voice. "What kind of prices
are folks asking for farmland hereabouts?"
"You aiming to buy?" The man looted at him
sharply.
Otto became noncommittal. "Maybe, maybe
not It's a long haul to the Oregon country."
"A farm of five hundred acres-and you can't show a
cash profit every year on less-goes for ten dollars
an acre in today's market."
Otto was shocked. "Ten per acre! That's three
or four more than anybody ever paid on Long
Island."
The farmer's smile was superior. "Look at the
difference in what we grow."
Otto couldn't argue with him, and fell silent
until the party was returning to the nooning site.
"They want an arm and a leg for Illinois land,"
he said. "But blamed if it may not be worth every
penny they're asking."
Sam was aware of Otto's greedy nature, but
wasn't impressed by his reasoning. "I'm no
fanner, mind you, and I've never in my life grown
a crop. But I still know good land when I see it, and the
soil in Oregon is as black and heavy as this land
here."
Otto found that difficult to believe. He shook his
head.
"If you're thinking of leaving the train and getting yourself
some property in Illinois," Sam said, "don't
do it. I'd hate to see you make a mistake,
Otto, so I'll let you in on a secret I've
been directed to announce after we get
to Independence. Every householder and head of family
who goes all the way to Oregon will be given a
deed to six hundred, acres there."
"Six hundred acres? Free?"
"President Van Buren will announce the
expanded policy at the end of the year. Nothing has
been said until now because the government didn't want
too many volunteers signing up at the start. This
first wagon train would have been too big. Once we
establish the route, settlers by the thousands will
follow."
"Six hundred free acres!" Otto was still
stunned, and the issue was settled. Even if Sam was
exaggerating and the land in Oregon proved less
fertile, he couldn't resist the bargain. He
dismissed the black soil of the Illinois prairie
from his mind.
When he told Cathy his decision she was so
relieved she was speechless. But her sense of guilt
almost overwhelmed her. She was almost sorry Otto
hadn't bought land here, and she wondered how she could ever
face Whip Holt again.
As soon as the corn and vegetables were distributed the
afternoon march began. Stalking Horse, having found an
adequate campsite for the night, returned and
rode at the head of the caravan beside Sam. Jumping
to the ground from Oaudia's wagon, Quincy followed
his usual practice and happily trotted between them.
The late summer sun was warm, the sky was cloudless
and even the most critical of travelers,
Grace Drummond included, could find no fault
with the weather.
Suddenly the shepherd dog raced ahead, halted in
the tall grass and began to bark furiously. Sam
and Stalking Horse, who could see nothing amiss,
exchanged glances and then spurred forward.
The Cherokee was the first to reach the spot. He
grinned. "Quincy," he said solemnly, "meets
alriend."
When he saw a prairie dog a tenth of
Quincy's size crouching in a nest below the surface
of the ground, Sam laughed aloud. Smooth-haired,
his short fur a pale tan, the animal's
oversized paws and long legs indicated that he was a
puppy. He wagged his tail tentatively, but was
terrified by the shepherd.
For the sake of the children in the company Sam called a
halt. He summoned the youngsters, who were joined by a
number of adults. "It looks to Stalking Horse
and me as though this pup is on his own. Something must have
happened to his mother."
Several children, including the younger Harris boys,
clamored for the right to adopt the puppy. Cindy, who
said nothing, was enraptured, too.
Sam shook his head. "Prairie dogs
don't make good pets," he said. "They're
accustomed to wild ways from the time they're born, and
they're hard to train. Well let the little one be."
Claudia had to call Quincy several times before
he'd return to her wagon. Then Sam raised his
hand, blew his whistle and the journey across the flat
countryside was resumed.
A half hour later, as Tome was making her
rounds, she noted that Ted Woods" wagon, bringing
up the rear of the center column, had fallen far behind,
although he seemed to be trying to keep pace. She
rode back to him, calling, "Any trouble?"
"No, ma'am," Ted replied politely.
"We're doing just fine."
In spite of his reassuring words, she noted that the
blacksmith looked strangely guilty, as did
Danny, seated beside him. She peered at them more
closely, realizing
hat Ted was using his body to shield the former bound
boy from her view. Then she saw that Danny was
cradling the young prairie dog in his arms.
"Oh-oh," she said. "Sam won't like this."
"To hell with Sam Brentwood and to hell with you,
too." Ted's anger suddenly Bared. "If I
want to pick up a stray puppy that's my
right!"
Tonie shrugged and spurred forward again. She thought it
strange that Ted Woods had stopped to pick up the
little dog, but his private Me was his aflair. She
had no intention of earning the powerful man's ill will
by reporting the matter to Sam. A wise woman
took care not to be caught in the middle of a dispute
between two strong men.
The instant the day's march ended Ted jumped to the
ground, carrying the puppy and leaving Danny
to maneuver the ramshackle wagon into its place in
the circle. He headed straight for Cindy's
wagon, reaching her side as she finished unhitching
her team.
"I've got a present for you if you want him,"
he said, thrusting the prairie dog at her. "Here."
Cindy clapped her hands together in delight "Oh,
how wonderful! But Sam Brentwood said-was
"I don't give a hang what he said. He
ain't the final authority on everything in this world. It
so happens I know more about prairie dogs than he
does. If you don't want the pup I'll keep
him myself. He's been taken too far from his nest
to survive all by himself."
"Don't put words in my mouth," the girl
replied tartly. "I certainly didn't say I
don't want him." She paused, softening somewhat.
"You truly do know about dogs like this?"
"If you knew me better, ma'am, you'd realize
I never lie to anybody. About anything."
"Oh, I take your word," Cindy assured him.
"I just wondered how you-was
"I spent ten years in prison," Ted said
harshly, interrupting her. "For more than half that time
I was considered so dangerous they kept me in
solitary confinement. But the warden wasn't all that
mean. He had four children, and four different times he
brought me prairie dogs to train for them. He
figured I had a way with dogs, and he was right.
Those dogs were the only friends I had for many years."
"I-I'll be very happy and pleased to accept this
puppy as a gift. Thank you."
"If you want, I'll break him in for you, and
he'll be the friendliest, most obedient pet you ever
did see." An invisible chip then settled on the
blacksmith's shoulder. "Unless you don't want
anything to do with a convict."
Cindy looked at him, her gaze level. "You
aren't a convict, Mr. Woods," she said, "any
more than I'm a harlot. Your past is behind
you. I, for one, don't care in the least that you were in
prison, and I really have no interest in why you were
sent there."
"If you want to know," Ted replied, wide-eyed,
"I'll be glad to tell-was
"Don't bother. Some other time, maybe. Every last
man and woman in this wagon train has done something
stupid sometime. It's just more obvious with you and me,
that's all. And I don't care to hear another word
on the subject."
He swallowed hard.
"Let's start breaking in the puppy right now,"
Cindy said, "You must help me give him a name."
Claudia, who happened to be walking past the
wagon on her water-gathering detail, had never
seen such a gentle, sweet smile on any man's
face.
When a steer was purchased from a nearby farmer, making
it unnecessary for the hunters to leave camp, Ernst von
Thalman was at loose ends. His air of jaunty
self-confidence was an accurate reflection of his
personality, but he was also lonely, though he took
pains to conceal it.
He had joined the wagon train for adventure and
excitement, never intending to settle in
Oregon with his American companions. Now,
however, he had no idea how he would spend the rest
of his life after the long journey finally came to an
end. He had no intention of returning to Austria.
Life at the Imperial court in Vienna was dull
and boring, and his hunting lodge in the Alps above
Innsbruck was equally unappealing. Fortunately
he had the means to do as he pleased.
Perhaps he was spoiled by his life as a bachelor,
with too much money, too many homes and servants,
too many lovely ladies clamoring and conniving for the
privilege of becoming the Baroness von Thalman.
These Americans were unique, unlike any people
he'd ever known, and he enjoyed their company
immensely.
They not only paid Up service to a democratic,
egalitarian way of life, they practiced what
they preached. Those whose ancestors had come to America
in the seventeenth century were no better than
recently arrived immigrants. And their ability
to assimilate was
miraculous. He had heard inflections in Tonie
Mell's speech patterns that told him she was of
Imperial Russian descent, and perhaps had even
been born in the Old World, but there was no
one hi the company more completely American.
Claudia Humphries was obviously a lady of
background, breeding and wealth, but Cindy, until a
few weeks ago a prostitute in a Louisville
bordello, was regarded by most members of the company
as Claudia's equal. Stalking Horse was an
Indian, and if everything the Baron had read in
Europe about redmen was true, he was the enemy of the
whites. Yet everyone on the expedition liked,
trusted and respected him. Nowhere else on earth was
there such a harmonious blend of peoples.
Ernst had no idea whether he would even like
Oregon, the supposed land of milk and honey. He
had many private doubts. But he had to wait till
he saw the region for himself before he formed any final
conclusions. In the meantime, having broken the bonds
of convention that had tied
him
down for more than four decades, he was free to live
as he pleased and do what he wanted. He knew of
no greater luxury.
These Americans, born in freedom, at liberty
to do what they wished with their lives, had no idea
what it meant to be a member of an ancient,
aristocratic family in one of
Europe's oldest and most powerful empires. For
as long as Hapsburgs had sat on the throne in
Vienna there had been von Thalmans on hand
to advise them, help them, fight for them.
As the second son of a duke, a baron in his own
right, Ernst had been destined for a military life from
birth. Sent to a special academy at seven,
he had en301
listed as an ordinary trooper at eleven, and been
made an officer-cadet at fourteen. Winning his
commission on the Turkish frontier, he had risen
to the rank of colonel, with his own cavalry regiment
to command. Had he stayed in Austria he would have been
promoted to general, and ultimately made a
member of the Imperial General Staff.
But an assignment as military attach of the
Austrian Legation in Washington City had been his
undoing, and his friendship with President Andrew
Jackson had given him an insight into a way of
life previously unknown. He was still a subject
of the Emperor, to be sure, but he had resigned his
commission rather than return home. Now he was tasting
the freedom that Americans took for granted, and
he was inclined to suspect, if he liked the
Oregon territory, he just might
settle there permanently and become an American
citizen. There were other Von Thalmans to carryson
the family traditions in Austria, which gave him the
privilege of becoming a member of this new breed that
would conquer the New World wilderness, establishing their
civilization in the far reaches of the West. In no
hurry to make any final decisions, he was having
the time of his life.
Wandering aimlessly around the inside of the circle,
Ernst exchanged greetings with almost everyone, but
paused for conversation with none. He was restless, perhaps
seeking something that even he couldn't identify.
He saw Emily Harris jilting on the rear
steps of her wagon, sewing as usual. She was such
a skilled needlewoman that she had been placed in
charge of a special
detail to repair clothes and make shirts and
dresses of old sheets.
As he walked slowly toward her Ernst smiled
to himself. Even he, an aristocrat who could trace his
noble ancestry back to the early days of the Holy
Roman Empire, was becoming Americanized. If
Emily Harris lived in Vienna, she'd belong
to the upper portion of the serving class, but as an
impoverished seamstress she could never rise
above her position as a servant. In this American
group, however, no one ranked above her, himself
included. It didn't matter to her that he was a
baron, a title that had no significance in her
world, and she called him by his first name.
"Well, Ernie," she said, "I see you're
loafing this evening."
Ernst found her good nature contagious, and grinned
at her. "Loafing? Never. I've come to persuade
you to put aside that infernal needle and walk out into the
prairie with me. You need the exercise, Emily."
"Are you telling me I'm getting fat?" She was the
only woman of his generation he knew who wasn't
overweight. As a matter of fact, her waist was
small, her breasts almost as high and firm as a
girl's, and her thighs under her dress of soft
cotton were lean. A remarkable figure for a woman
who had brought a whole brood of children into the world.
"You are not fat, Emily," he said in a chiding
tone. "You work so hard you'll soon lose
weight-unless you get some exercise to improve your
appetite."
She sighed, putting away the trousers she was mending.
"You're a bad influence on me, Ernie. Sitting
here and smelling that side of beef barbecuing
reminds me
of how long it's been since I tasted beef. If
I stay here much longer rtt start feeling sorry for
myself, so I will take a walk with you."
They meandered together toward the far side of the circle.
Ernst, still in a reflective mood, laughed
inwardly. How the princes, dukes and his fellow
barons of the Austrian court-and their grand
ladies-would snicker if they could see him strolling
with this unpretentious American widow. Not so long
ago he would have snickered, too, but he was learning a
lesson taught only in the United States, that of
accepting people for what they were.
Everything in the encampment appeared to be normal.
Horses and oxen were grazing. Firewood gathered
during the day was being stacked in neat piles. The
water-gathering detail was finishing its work, and several
women were ladling a sauce they had made over the
side of roasting meat. Others were pouring water
into vats for boiling corn. Tonight Ernst had been
promised a treat he couldn't envision, an
Illinois delicacy called corn-onthe-cob.
Off in one corner Dr. Martin, aided
by Claudia, was lancing boils on the back of a
middle-aged man who was drowsy from
laudanum, a liquid opiate that eased his pain.
Sam was studying a detailed map with Stalk- mg
Horse and Tonie, plotting the next day's march,
and because it was easier for the Indian all three were
speaking in Cherokee, their voices a blend of what
sounded like deep grunts and high, liquid nasal
sounds. Just outside the circle, Ted Woods was
trying to give the prairie puppy a lesson in
obedience, but the crea-
tore was in a playful mood, encouraged by a laughing
Cindy. Ted didn't seem to mind too much.
Emily and Ernst made their way into the open, where the
flat prairie stretched toward the horizon in every
direction. The woman shook her head. "I could
never live in this part of the country," she said. "I have
almost no sense of direction, and every place looks so
much like every other place that I'd soon get lost."
"The countryside isn't that much alike," he told
her, and pointed out subtle differences. The grass
toward the south was coarser, that on the east grew longer
and there were bare patches of ground to the north. Had he
been born an American, Emily thought, he
might have become as competent a guide and scout as
Sam Brentwood, and she could pay him no higher
compliment.
In the distance they heard the shouts of young voices,
mixed with loud laughter, so they walked in that
direction.
"I can recognize the noise each one of my sons
makes," Emily said, shaking her head. "Would you
believe I can even distinguish between their footsteps?
But I wouldn't admit it to them. All of them hate
being babied, except Billy, the youngest."
"They don't really hate it. Quite the contrary,
provided you pet and kiss each one privately.
Boys are so eager to prove they're men they'll go
to any extreme to avoid being thought weak. What
they
regard as weak, that is." Ernst smiled.
Drawing closer, they saw that the boys of the expe-
dition had been swimming in a small, spring-fed
pond. Now they were racing back and forth through the tall
grass, throwing a ball of yarn in a game they had
devised, with Chet as the head of one team and Danny
as captain of the other. The sport made no sense
to the adults, but the boys seemed to know what they were
doing.
Only little Billy Harris seemed to have been left
out. His legs were too short to match the strides of the
bigger boys. Ignored by both teams, he
moved up and down the side of the field, his short
legs pumping. "Throw it to me!" he implored, but
they failed to hear him.
Emily became indignant. "They should find a
place for him. This is cruel." She was about
to intervene, but Ernst stopped her.
"No," he said. "Don't interfere. If you force
them to include Billy they'll resent him, and you'll
do more harm than good. It isn't easy for Billy,
but let him make his own place. Eventually they'll
accept him. Boys are thoughtless, but no one is ever
too young to learn to stand on his own two feet."
He was right, Emily realized, and thought-as she had so
often in the past-how difficult it was for her to rear her
sons alone. They needed a father, someone who knew
instinctively what was right and wrong in situations that
confused her. Too often she made the wrong
decision, she knew, and although her boys were
surviving, they needed firm, sympathetic guidance
from an adult male.
Suddenly Billy screamed, in a voice of pure
terror. Rooted to the spot where he was standing, he
pointed
with a stubby forefinger at something in the half- trampled
grass only a couple of feet away.
It was a rattlesnake, coiled to strike. The
serpent bad been disturbed, and there could be no doubt
that it meant to retaliate.
"Dear God," Emily murmured.
Ernst took charge. "Billy," he called
sharply, "don't move a muscle. Stand very still!
Boys, keep your distance!"
Billy did his best to obey. He wanted to show
great courage. He didn't know why he'd been
given the order, but sensed that running would be the wrong
thing to do, so he obeyed the command.
Ernst took his pistol from his belt, cocked it and
took careful aim. He had to hit his target with one
shot. If he missed, he might strike the already
endangered child. Beads of sweat appeared on his
forehead, and he wiped them away with his free hand so
they wouldn't run into his eyes and blind him.
Emily caught and held her breath. Billy's
legs trembled, but he didn't budge.
The snake's rattle sounded ominously, a warning that
it was about to strike, and it raised its head, fork- like
fangs showing.
Ernst had only a fraction of a second to zero hi
on his target. If he missed the small child would
surely die of poisoning. He squeezed
the trigger.
The bullet struck as the snake began its
attack. The rattler's head suddenly
disintegrated.
Someone else had witnessed the narrow escape.
Stalking Horse had dashed out of the compound when he had
heard the child's scream. Now, racing forward,
he snatched Billy up into the air, then handed him
to his mother.
Emily clasped her son tightly, but even now
Billy
dtda't weep,
ffe
was
pare, sfuThat frembfing, but he knew
he'd been saved, and that
was what counted.
The snake, although dead, continued to thrash violently.
"Baron shoot good," the Cherokee said.
Ernst could only nod. He was so relieved he
felt weak. Nevertheless, he reloaded his pistol before
placing it in his belt.
The older boys were staring at the still-writhing rattler.
The Indian drew a knife, moved forward and
picked up the serpent. Examining it, he
nodded in satisfaction, then cut out the double sacs of
venom still attached to the corpse. "Stalking Horse
make belt for boy," he told Billy, then said
something else to Ernst under his breath.
"Listen, all of you," Ernst called. "Stalking
Horse says that rattlesnakes almost always
travel in pairs, so there's sure to be another one
in this tall grass. Form quietly in a single
file. No noise, no pushing or shoving. Stalking
Horse will lead us back to the wagons. Follow
exactly in his footsteps." He took Billy from
Emily and sat the boy on his shoulder.
Apparently the Cherokee had no need to cut the
grass with his knife or beat it with a stick. Carrying
the dead snake, he walked slowly but confidently,
picking a path.
Emily came behind him, followed by the silent boys
and Ernst, with Billy still perched on his shoulder,
bringing up the rear. They reached the campsite without
further incident.
PfOmiSID-GO
(b Cure
the
snakesjiii) and make it into a
belt
for
Bitty,
the Indian dipped the tips of his arrows into the
rattler's venom. The group of youngsters watched him
in awe.
Suddenly he grinned. "Make bow and arrows for
boy, too," he said. "Then Stalking Horse show
him how to shoot."
All at once little Billy was the hero of the moment.
His courage had been genuine, and the boys respected
him for it. But now, in addition, he was going to be
given a belt made of rattlesnake skin and a
genuine Indian bow and arrows. His envious elders
surrounded him, clamoring for his attention.
As Ernst von Thalman walked her back to her
wagon, Emily Harris was still thinking of the terrible
danger. "I keep wondering what would have happened
if you had missed," she said.
Like the boys, the Baron preferred to dismiss the
matter from his mind. "I couldn't afford to miss," he
said with a shrug.
Emily was struck by the similar attitudes
displayed by men and boys. "Well, I'm grateful
to you," she said.
"I'm glad I was there ... at the right
time," Ernst said.
Western Illinois was sparsely populated, in part
because the fertile land was so expensive. The
relatively few established farms were large, some
as big as ten thousand acres, but there were those who said the
wilderness began here. That view was something of an
exaggeration since Missouri, which lay to the West, had
already been admitted to statehood, and the adjoining
Iowa territory was rapidly approaching the time when
it, too, would apply tor admission to the Union.
All the same, those who believed the West began in
Elinois were not entirely mistaken. Sam
Brentwood deliberately chose a route that
avoided towns, villages and even farms, so for
three days the members of the expedition saw no
signs of civilization. As they made their way across
the vast expanses of unoccupied prairie they
began to realize that the United States was an
enormous country, with enough territory to support
millions of settlers.
Until now the nooning halt had been informal, the
wagons remaining in line, the teams unhitched so
oxen and horses could browse where they pleased. But
Sam increased discipline in western Illinois,
insisting that the wagons be moved into a
circle at noon, too, with animals confined
inside it. The maneuver was not easy to perform even
once a day, so many travelers grumbled, complaining
that they were wasting their time. Certainly there were no
hostile Indians or other marauders in these parts.
The precautions appeared unnecessary.
When asked to relax the rule, Sam didn't
explain his reasons for enforcing it. "I've got
to use my own judgment," he said, "and in my
opinion we'll be safer if we make our night
circle in the middle of the day, too."
Not until the third day of the trek across western
Illinois did some members of the expedition understand.
The day was quiet, the prairie baking in the stifling,
breezeless, late summer sun. The water-gathering
detail had returned from a nearby brook; oxen and
horses were grazing inside the circle. As usual
at noon, families provided their own food,
usually eating leftovers from the communal breakfast.
Remembering Billy Harris' near mishap, few
people wandered far from the confines of the circle.
Billy himself was one of the exceptions. Stalking
Horse had made him a bow small enough for the boy
to handle, along with a half-dozen arrows. Both had
finished eating quickly, and the child was being given a
lesson hi how to shoot.
The target was a corncob the Indian had placed
on top of a forked stick about twenty yards from where he
and Billy were standing. The Cherokee's instructions were
succinct. "Boy hold bow steady. Aim. Pull
bow hard."
Billy tried to follow orders, but his arrow followed
a wobbly course and fell short of the target.
Stalking Horse was patient. "Boy pull bow
harder. Aim better. Never look away from
target."
The next arrow flew on a straighter course, almost
reaching the target before it dropped to the ground. Billy
whooped in glee.
As he ran forward to retrieve his arrows, Stalking
Horse became distracted. He stood erect,
apparently listening to sounds the boy couldn't hear.
Billy returned to his side and started to speak.
The Cherokee silenced him with a sharp gesture, then
astonished him by bending low and placing one ear to the
ground, pressing it against the black earth. Then
he jumped to his feet. He seemed to be in a
hurry. "No more shoot today," he said. "Come."
Billy had to trot beside him in order to keep pace.
Stalking Horse went straight to Sam, and
conferred with him in a low tone. Then the Baron was
summoned, and all three spoke briefly. They
scattered momentarily to mount horses. All three
were armed as usual-Sam and Ernst with rifles, the
Indian with his bow and a full quiver of arrows.
Sam summoned Tonie Mell. "Pass the word,"
he said. "I want nobody to leave the circle, and
that's an order. People and animals will stay inside where
they'll be safe."
Something out of the ordinary was obviously in the offing, but
Tonie asked no questions. She hurried from wagon
to wagon, repeating the instructions.
The trio started toward the western end of the circle,
intending to ride into the open.
Quincy, who had been sharing Claudia
Humphrie's light meal, jumped to the ground, his
tail wagging, and fell in beside Sam.
"Go back, boy!" Sam said firmly. "Join your
mistress and stay with her."
He had never before addressed the dog so sharply, and
Quincy was bewildered.
"Put a leash on your dog and keep it on him,"
Sam called to Claudia. "Hold him beside you and
don't let him get away, or that'll be the end of
him."
Claudia wondered why Sam spoke so curtly
when a gentler tone would have sufficed. Nevertheless she
called repeatedly to Quincy, then had to descend to the
ground and hold him before the three men could ride out of the
circle.
Danny approached with a length of rope, and
Claudia formed it into a makeshift leash, then
returned to the seat of her wagon with the
recalcitrant shepherd in tow. Quincy was
growling. His feelings were hurt.
Suddenly he raised his ears, his body became
tense and his growl died away. Although Claudia could
hear nothing, Quincy continued to listen, then began
to quiver. Moving close to his mistress, he
leaned against her and whined. Never had Claudia known
him to demonstrate such fright.
Sam, Ernst and the Indian had taken up a position
about a hundred feet beyond her place in the circle.
All were facing the West, and although their mounts were
becoming skittish the men themselves were calm. Sam
checked his rifle, then the powder he carried in the
horn slung from his neck.
Aware that someone was watching him, he turned and
grinned at Claudia.
His expression reminded her of the Harris
boys when they were waiting for fresh fruit pies
to bake. Whatever might be developing, Sam
Brentwood was looking forward to the experience. But that
realization failed to soothe her. As nearly as she could
judge, Sam remained complacent no matter what
danger threatened. Perhaps that was the quality that most
annoyed her; she had yet to see him flustered, or
unable to make the right decision in an emergency. The
man's ability to function competently under stress was
downright irritating.
A ramble of thunder sounded in the distance. This was odd,
because the sky was pure blue and almost cloudless, as far
as Claudia could see. Others heard it, too, and the
strange phenomenon made them uneasy.
Off to the West, on the horizon, Claudia was able
to make out a small, dark cloud. As the cloud
grew larger and the rumble of thunder louder, it occurred
to her that the cloud was made of dust. No rain had
fallen for more than a week, so the surface ground
under the prairie grass was relatively dry.
Something was moving closer, then closer still.
Stalking Horse raised a hand to his forehead
to shield his eyes. Claudia followed his
example, and was startled when she realized that what she
saw was not one moving object, but many.
Other members of the company peered out through the openings
between the wagons, jostling and nudging each other
to obtain a better view.
"Buffalo!" someone shouted.
Of course. Claudia wondered how she could have been
so stupid. A herd of buffalo was approaching, and
appeared to be headed straight for the wagon train.
Their ranks were so tightly packed, they looked like a
single object.
As they drew ever closer, Claudia was able to make
out individual buffaloes. In the lead were several
horned bulls, shaggy beasts as large as the
oxea.
Their gait was clumsy, but they moved with great speed.
Other bulls spread out behind the leaders, and then came
the cows, accompanied by their offspring. Other bulls
were galloping on the flanks. Without lessening
their speed, they were able to turn straying cows and
calves back toward the center. Their discipline was
impressive.
The lead bulls were ugly monsters, so large they
appeared able to trample and destroy anything in theil
path. Unless they changed their course it looked as
though they'd crash through the wagon train.
The work horses were now upset, neighing and
pawing the ground, and even the placid oxen were
disturbed.
Quincy nestled closer to Qandia, and buried his
face in her lap. Stalking Horse and Ernst von
Thalman were holding their horses on short rein, and
finding it difficult to prevent their mounts from bolting.
But Sam continued to slouch comfortably in his saddle,
an occasional, quiet word enough to keep his great
stallion quiet. He was actually enjoying the
challenge, Claudia decided, and so was his horse.
Some members of the company were growing nervous, and
several frightened women were no longer able to watch the
rapidly approaching avalanche. There were more
buffalo than anyone could count. If they continued on
their course, every living being hi then" path would
be
crushed, and the wagons reduced to splinters.
Quincy's whimpers became louder, but were barely
audible. The steady, increasing roar of pounding hooves
drowned out all other sounds.
Claudia too, became apprehensive. She had
read about buffalo stampeding wildly, racing in
unison over open spaces for no apparent reason,
and she concluded that these animals were engaging in such a
mindless stampede. Several lead buffalo were
frothing at the mouth, and the whole herd had given in
to panic.
Lena Malcolm, standing inside the circle,
screamed in fright, clutching her baby. Terence tried
to comfort her, but failed.
With the slight breeze blowing from the West, the stench of the
herd became almost unbearable. It was a smell that would
never be forgotten. Although Claudia felt like
retching, her fear was so intense she couldn't remove
her gaze from the herd.
The three waiting men held their places as the herd
drew closer. Claudia wondered if they were mad.
What were they waiting for? The buffalo were within rifle
range, but neither Sam nor Ernst fired a shot.
The trio would be the first to die.
The ground trembled. The contents of the wagons
rattled ominously. Now the buffalo were close enough for
Claudia to see the tiny red eyes of the leaders. The
animals seemed unaware of the wagons blocking their
path. Within moments the train would be inundated by a
tidal wave of charging animals.
Calmly, Stalking Horse notched an arrow in his
bow and shot. The shaft landed between the eyes of one of the
bulls in the front rank. The beast stumbled, but his
momentum was so great he continued to move
forward, and it took a second swift arrow, then a
third, to bring him down.
The rifles of Sam and Ernst spoke more or less
simultaneously. Both men reloaded with a speed that
Claudia envied. After they fired again two more
buffalo fell and rolled on the ground.
The work horses and oxen, now panicky, had to be
calmed by owners who expected to die momentarily.
Some people were calm. Nat Drummond appeared
to enjoy the spectacle, and so did Ted Woods,
whose frequent nods indicated his approval of the
tactics being employed by the three men sitting on
their horses.
Suddenly, miraculously, the herd split, half
passing the caravan on one side and the rest sweeping
by on the other. Many animals were so close to the
wagons that Claudia could have reached out and touched them.
The cloud of dust was suffocating now, so thick that it
clouded vision. Coughing could be heard from one wagon
to the next. The herd thundered on, a number of the young
bulls recklessly grazing the wagons.
Then the rifles spoke again, and this time two calves
were felled. The herd paid no attention, both
columns still racing eastward.
When she saw Sam and Ernst grinning,
Claudia was outraged. Even the stone-faced
Stalking Horse was smiling broadly. She
wondered how they had the temerity to enjoy themselves when the
whole expedition had been in such danger.
She realized that the last of the herd was gone, running
east at full speed. She didn't understand what the
three men had done to prevent the wagon train from
suffering harm, but not one wagon was damaged, not one
human or animal was injured. The herd of buffalo
was disappearing from sight. It was no accident that the
entire company was safe, and Claudia's anger
turned to admiration.
Three bulls and two calves had been killed, and
Sam called for the help of experienced hands to butcher
the carcasses. It was questionable now whether the march could be
resumed before the next morning, but no one cared. For
days to come, people could eat their fill of meat.
Before joining Stalking Horse to supervise the
butchering, Sam rode to Claudia's wagon,
leaned out of his saddle and stroked the reviving
Quincy. "Sorry I had to be mean to you, boy,"
he said. "I figured the herd would part at the last
minute like the waters of the Red Sea if we brought
down a few of them. It's a trick that usually
works. But buffalo are such stupid,
ignorant critters that you never can tell. So if
anything had happened to me, you had to be around to look
after the lady."
Not glancing at Claudia, he turned away
abruptly.
She looked after him in wonder, scarcely able
to believe her ears. His compliment was oblique, to be
sure, but its implications hinted at an intimacy
that had never yet been present in their stormy
relationship.
The Illinois prairies seemed endless, but
suddenly, when the company least expected it, the
wagon train reached the banks of the great
Mississippi River. Its waters swollen
by early autumn rains, it had spread to a width of
almost a mile directly below its junction with the
Missouri, its major western tributary.
The Mississippi more nearly resembled a large
lake, and Claudia realized why it was called the
lifeline of the West. From the eastern bank she could
see a steady stream of barges. They were laden with
furs, agricultural produce and lumber heading
downstream to New Orleans, where the cargo would be
transferred to the holds of merchant ships and carried
to the Eastern Seaboard in a fraction of the
time that overland transportation would take. It was the
Mississippi, together with the Ohio and the Missouri,
that provided the basic, unifying economic force in
America,
and it was thanks to this network of rivets that the nation
continued to grow.
Only now did Claudia realize how completely
the West was cut off from the rest of the United
States. The Rockies and two other mountain
ranges stood between the Pacific and the eastward-flowing
rivers. Some western products would have to be carried
by sea to the Isthmus of Panama, transported
overland through the Panamanian jungles to the
Atlantic and then reshipped for sale to the East.
Now the prospect of traveling to Oregon appealed
to her even less than it had, but she no longer had a
choice. She had destroyed her bridges; she had
lost her options. She had to make the best of her
lot.
She found it vastly comforting that Sam Brentwood was
in charge of the wagon train. She had seen enough of him
in action to know that he had the ability, the resilience
and the courage to deal with any crisis, whether
natural or manmade.
She was willing to admit to herself, if not
to him, that she had misjudged bun in thinking him
crude and primitive. He lacked her
sophistication, to be sure. He was in no way like the
worldly men she had known in New Haven and New
York, but that was all to the good. His strength of character
lay in his uncanny, natural ability to cast
aside surface elements that confused other people. When
a problem arose he grasped it instinctively, and
he knew what to do. She would never forget his calm in
the path of the buffalo herd.
Now she was dismayed at the thought that he would leave the
wagon train in Independence. It did no good
to tell herself that her seme of loss was unreasonable and
illogical. Whip Holt, who would replace him
as wagon master, was certainly competent, and able
to deal with any situation.
But Whip Holt wasn't Sam Brentwood. And
it was difficult for Claudia to imagine crossing the
Great Plains, the Rocky Mountains and the so-called
Second Chain, the mountains of the far West, without
him. The very idea depressed her, and she had
to struggle to prevent herself from dwelling on it
More than once she was tempted to speak to Sam, but it
was impossible. They were separated by barriers they
themselves had built, and Claudia was convinced
there was no way to remove or even lower them. She
had to live one day at a time. That's what she was
learning to do on this weary, interminable journey.
Crossing the Mississippi was difficult and
time-consuming. The owners of barges and ferries on the
St. Louis waterfront, located on the west
bank, were attracted by the army of covered wagons,
and large numbers of river craft came in search of
business. But most of the boatmen were unscrupulous,
long accustomed to fleecing Easterners, and the prices
they demanded were so high that Sam Brentwood simply
waved them away without bothering to bargain.
"I don't rightly know what he has in mind,"
Nat Drummond muttered, "but we can't swim
horses and oxen across a river this wide. And the
special wagon will sink for sure."
Sam waited patiently for any boatman to make
him a reasonable offer. It became evident, however,
that
the owners of barges and ferries were in league with each
other. They demanded outrageously high fees because they
believed the travelers would be compelled in time
to weaken.
But they failed to take into account Sam
Brentwood's temper. Standing beside his
stallion at the river's edge, he listened without
comment to the bids made by a half-dozen boatmen, and
then he exploded. "Out at Fort Laramie a few
years ago," he said, "we hanged a couple of
scoundrels who tried to charge us too much for flour and
bacon when we were hungry."
"You can't do that here," a boatman said.
"Can't I?" Sam's savage laugh astonished
Claudia, who was standing within earshot. She thought she
knew him fairly well, but she saw, better than
ever, his hard, primitive core. "I know St.
Louis as well as I know any town in the West,"
he said. "I know every street, every tavern. The only
law here is the law a man makes for himself."
Several boatmen began to sidle away.
Sam drew and cocked his pistols in one swift,
smooth motion. "Don't leave just when our chat is
becoming interesting," he said.
The boatmen returned.
"It so happens," he said, "that I carry letters from
President Van Buren and former President
Jackson officially requesting every U.s. Army
garrison to cooperate with me. Well, I could
hang a couple of you to teach the rest manners, but
I'm peaceable by nature. So Til just have
the troops at Fort Jefferson build me some
barges. A whole fleet of barges, which three or
four hundred men can do in a day. I'll not only
carry
my wagon train across the river, but IT1 be the
owner of the biggest fleet in St. Louis. I'll
even go into the ferry business myself. And no matter
what prices you no-good, money-grubbing bastards
charge, I'll carry passengers and cargo across the
river for half. It won't take me long to drive
every last one of you out of business!"
Claudia knew he wasn't bluffing. He was
angry enough to carry out his threat.
The boatmen realized it, too. They were unprepared
for the unyielding attitude of a tough mountain man, and
they dreaded the competition that a large fleet of
twenty or thirty new barges would offer them.
Sam moved away from the boatmen, but spoke loudly
enough for them to hear him. "Ernie," he said to Baron
von Thalman, "form the wagons in a circle.
Make sure every man in the company carries his
firearms. I'm going to swim my horse across the
river to Fort Jefferson, so you're in command until
I get back. Don't allow any outsiders into the
compound, and shoot to kill if anyone
tries. I'll return with our own barges, manned
by members of the garrison. As we say out in my
country, there's more than one way to get the last laugh
on a hyena."
Two ferrymen had heard enough. One of them called
out, "Mister, you name a reasonable price."
"Fifty cents a wagon and a dollar for my
special wagon," Sam replied promptly.
"Fifty cents for each ferry load of horses and
oxen. No bargaining. That's my fee, and you can either
take it or go to hell. Which you'll do if you get
into a fight with me."
The man took a deep breath. "We accept," he
said.
The others immediately began to clamor for their share of the
business. The price Sam had quoted was the
current, fair rate, as they well knew. His
firm stand had completely altered the picture.
His good humor restored, Sam accepted the offers.
Soon the wagons were unhitched, then hauled onto
barges for the crossing.
What made the incident memorable, Claudia
decided, was that Sam behaved as though nothing untoward
had happened. He refrained from gloating or rubbing
salt in the wounds of the boatmen; it was enough that
he had beaten them at their own game. He had
achieved his goal, so he was satisfied.
Riding on the decks of the ferries transporting them
across the Mississippi, the pioneers looked at the
ramshackle, one-story buildings of St. Louis.
Those who were aware of the town's romantic, exciting
past were disappointed. The city looked drab.
Founded in 1764 by French fur traders from New
Orleans, more than one thousand miles away, St.
Louis was at first a village clustered beneath a high,
protective bluff, but soon it spread to the
adjoining prairie- land. Controlled
Successively by France, Spain and the United
States, St. Louis, inspired by Great Britain
during the War of Independence, had fought off a
vicious attack by the Sioux nation.
As the original starting point for western explorers,
beginning with the Lewis and Clark expedition of
1804-1806, the town had become familiar to every
Rocky Mountain man, every trader and trapper and
guide who had ventured to the Pacific. Striving
for a
respectability it hadn't yet achieved, it was now
the principal headquarters of John Jacob
Astor's fur company and a number of other
major business enterprises.
The respectable citizens lived in one
neighborhood, which was guarded by private, armed
sentries. And no one of stature ever ventured beyond
the confines of this enclave after dark. There were some parts
of town which only the foolhardy dared to visit even in
broad daylight. The roughest was the waterfront
area, where French, Spanish and English were spoken.
Indians daubed with paint brought furs here to sell,
and escaped slaves from the South holed up in
riverfront shanties en route to safety in the
North. Mountain men came to the town in search of
pleasure after living hi isolation for months at a
time. Farmers congregated here as they arranged to ship
their produce to New Orleans and beyond.
Adventurers preyed on the unwary, and any
newcomer was regarded as fair game.
After the crossing, the wagon train reassembled on
the waterfront, watched by a crowd of loafers, and
then moved away from the town to a spot about a mile
and a half from the river. There the usual circle of
wagons was formed, and Sam assembled the entire
company.
"Folks," he said, "we're going to spend about a
week in this town. It's the last place we
can buy all sorts of things you'll need in the
wilderness. I've been authorized to give fifty
dollars to the head of every family for spare
iron-rimmed wheels, harnesses and other items you
can't get elsewhere. If you need new
winter clothes, get them here. However, don't, under
any circumstances, buy food here." He spoke
with slow emphasis. "A warehouse filled with
basic foods has already been established and stocked
at Independence. Once I set up my depot
there, we'll have many other things we can send to you on the
trail. There are honest food dealers in St.
Louis, but you'll have to search mighty hard to find
them."
Many people laughed.
"Now," he said, "I have some special rules for you
to follow while we're here. Ernie and I have set
up a sentry schedule that includes every last man in
the company. We'll be standing watch twenty-four
hours a day. At no time will you admit outsiders
to the compound.
Any
outsiders! If a visitor tries to sneak in,
challenge him, and if he doesn't stop, shoot
him. Always shoot to kill!"
Otto van Ayl was shocked by the drastic order.
"I think you go too far, Mr. Brentwood," he
said. "People in the United States don't engage in
such lawless acts. We could be prosecuted and
hanged for killing people."
"You'll be very dead yourself if you let in a visitor
who sticks a knife in your ribs!" Sam
retorted. "You're on the frontier now, Mr.
van Ayl. If the St. Louis constabulary was
multiplied by ten it still wouldn't be big enough or strong
enough to do the job of protecting decent citizens.
River pirates make their headquarters here. So do
sneak thieves, confidence men, card sharks and
pickpockets. The riffraff from the prisons of a
dozen states come here. There are mountain men
who've had a lean year and aren't above robbing the
innocent. Then there are the bad Indians. Tell
them, Stalking Horse."
The Cherokee faced the company, his arms folded across
his chest. "Many Indians bad, same as many white
man bad," he said. "Some Indians drink white
man's liquor. Not good. Make loco in head.
Make crazy. Bad Indians kill. Steal."
"He's telling you the truth," Sam said. "These
braves have been disowned by their own nations.
They stay here because they have nowhere else to go, and the more they
drink, the worse they get. Steer clear of them, and
stay away from the longshoremen on the river, too.
If you're smart, you'll avoid the waterfront
district like the plague. Never leave the campsite
alone. Always go in groups, buy what you must and come
back here as quickly as you can. Just remember that the most
lawless town in America is no place for
sightseeing or loitering. If any of you want
to eat at inns, I can give you the names of some
relatively safe places. But even there-count your
change!"
The pioneers took the warnings to heart. In the next
few days no problems developed. Only Sam and
Stalking Horse went off on missions by themselves, and
they encountered no difficulties because of their
familiarity with the pitfalls that could trap the unwary
in a frontier community. Even the resilient Ernst
von Thalman and the quietly efficient Dr.
Martin, who had decided to buy several new
surgical instruments, made certain they were
accompanied by others when they ventured into town.
Some of the company, like Terence and Lena Malcolm,
felt no need to visit any of the stores or shops
and were content to remain at the campsite
until the journey was resumed. Nat Drnmmond,
who was responsible for buying flat strips of iron
that could be used as replacements on the rims of the
special wagon's wheels, was accompanied on his
visit to a drygds store only by his indomitable
wife. And when they returned Grace reported that
no one had dared to molest them.
Claudia Humphries decided she'd be wise
to purchase a heavy sheepskin coat for the coming winter,
since her city attire had proved so unsuitable
for the road. Cathy wanted a new coat, too, so
they planned to go into town together. But Cathy was near
tears the morning they planned to go.
"I can't go with you," she said. "Otto refuses
to give me the four dollars I need for the coat.
He's in such a bad mood he won't even talk
about it."
"I'll loan you the money," Claudia said.
Cathy shook her head. "Thank you, but I have no
way of repaying you except through Otto. He'd be
so angry if I defied
him
he'd never give me another penny. And I don't
want to be in debt." Afraid of crying, she
moved off quickly to supervise the cooking
detail.
Tonie Mell, squatting and resting on her heels
as she ate a slab of cheese with a chunk of hot
bread, spoke up. "I wasn't eavesdropping,"
she said, "but I couldn't help overhearing you. Your
brother-in-law is really a stingy bastard."
Claudia wouldn't have used such strong language, but
she had to agree.
"If you still want to buy a coat for yourself, I'll be
glad to go with you. I want to buy some little presents
I can take home to my aunt and uncle."
Claudia was uneasy, but was somewhat reassured by the
appearance of the girl, who was wearing her worn
buckskins.
Tonie was aware of her hesitation. "You're
probably right. I've, come to St. Louis a
half-dozen times with my uncle, so I know my way
around town. But with just two of us we might run
into complications. We ought to find somebody else to go with
us,"
Claudia approved of her thinking.
"Anybody interested in going shopping this morning?"
she called.
The only person to respond was Cindy.
Claudia still felt somewhat ill at ease
in the company of the former bordello inmate, but
didn't want to be rude.
Tonie was blunt. "Come along if you want," she
said, "but wear something with a higher neckline and wash that
paint off your face. Or you'll be back in your
old business before you know it You heard Sam say
last night that a party of mountain men just got here
yesterday with a big load of furs. By this morning
they'll have sold their bundles, and all that cash will
weigh down their saddlebags. I've seen men like that
at my uncle's ranch on their way back
to civilization. Nobody ever pestered me there, but
I'd hate to meet one of them on a narrow street
in this town."
Cindy hurried off to her wagon to scrub her face
and change into more modest attire.
When she returned, the three young women left camp
without delay. Tonie carried a short knife, as
she always did when she wore her buckskins, but neither
she nor the others were anticipating any trouble. After
all, there was safety in numbers.
They made their way down a dirt road past a
residential district made up of log cabins,
interspersed with a few slightly larger dwellings of
whitewashed clapboard. The men of the
district had gone off, to work, and there were none to be
seen. A few toil-worn women were hanging washing
to dry in their small backyards, and some grubby children
were playing a game of tag, their shouts echoing down the
unpretentious street.
Claudia reflected that, of all the places she
had ever seen, this would be the worst to live in. She
couldn't understand why the residents were willing to condemn
themselves to a miserable, marginal existence for the rest of
their days. How much better it would be for them to pull
up stakes, go west and accept a grant of land from the
government, even if Oregon deeds were of questionable
legality since the United States had not
established its sovereignty over the territory.
She had to smile at the change in her own thinking.
The last thing on earth she herself had wanted was such a
move, but now it began to make sense. There was something
to be said for an outdoor life that she hadn't been
able to imagine or appreciate hi New Haven.
Their first stop was a drygds store, where Tonie
made a purchase of some material which she would make
into a shirt for her uncle. It was something he could always
use, and it would be an opportunity for her to show off
her needlework.
When they emerged from the store they were
vaguely conscious of a stocky Indian with shaggy
hair leaning against a building across the street. He
was attired in buckskin trousers, worn moccasins
and, in a futile attempt to appear dignified,
had wrapped a tattered blanket around his shoulders.
It appeared that he had been drinking.
The young women paid no attention to him until Tonie
glanced over her shoulder. "We're being followed,"
she murmured.
Cindy shrugged and dismissed the problem from her mind.
She could scarcely remember a time when men hadn't
followed her.
Claudia, however, tried to suppress a feeling of
alarm. She remembered Sam's warning, as well as
that of Stalking Horse, and St. Louis certainly
wasn't a civilized community.
Tonie wasn't too concerned. "He looks like a
renegade Kiowa," she said. "Most of them are good
people, but when they drink they turn sour. And from the
looks of this one, he's been drinking. If we pay
no attention he'll go away."
Tall Oak had ideas of his own on the matter.
He had earned money on the docks the previous
day, and spent just enough on whiskey this morning to feel a
sense of rare exhilaration. The willowy
girl with long red hair had attracted his immediate
notice, and he wanted her. His judgment clouded
by liquor, he assumed she and her companions worked
at one of the brothels in the waterfront area. These
trollops ordinarily disdained Indians, but weren't
above taking their money, and Tall Oak had enough cash
to pay for the
redhead's favors. Knowing bow these white women could
be touchy, he decided to wait until an
appropriate moment to make his approach.
Neither Tall Oak nor the three women realized
it, but someone else was following them. Ted Woods
had left the campsite in the wake of the girls, and
was staying far enough behind them, so they wouldn't know he was
keeping watch. Tonie and Claudia might be
annoyed, but he didn't really care what they thought
of him. But he was worried that Cindy might laugh and
tell him she didn't need a guardian.
Realizing that his temper was explosive, Ted had
taken care not to carry firearms. Even if an
altercation of some kind developed, he didn't
want to be sent back to prison. He had armed
himself only with one of his blacksmith's tools, a
long-handled hammer with a flat, iron head. It was
an ugly weapon, particularly when
wielded by someone endowed with his strength, and he warned
himself repeatedly not to use it. If that mangy
Indian was following Cindy, as he appeared to be,
a single punch in the face would be sufficient
to discourage him.
The next shopping stop was a store that specialized
in clothing and leather goods. There Tonie found a
length of fine wool to take to her aunt, and Cindy
was overjoyed to discover a pair of heavy boots,
precisely what she'd been seeking. Her dainty
city shoes not only wore out too quickly, they were
too impractical for wagon-train travel.
Armed with their purchases, the girls emerged into the
street again, and Claudia was relieved when she
didn't see the Kiowa.
"All we need to buy now is your coat," Tonie
told her. "The only trouble is that the stores that
sell such coats aren't far from the river."
"If you think it's safe," Claudia replied,
"I'm willing."
Never one to admit defeat, Tonie shrugged. "Why
not? We can look after ourselves."
Not until they had walked another block did they
realize that the Indian was following them again. Tall
Oak was growing more excited. Just as he'd
thought, the women were walking toward the riverfront
bordello where they worked. He fell in behind them again,
deciding to wait until he discovered which of the houses
employed them before he made his approach. The girl
with the long red hair soon would be his, so he was in
no hurry to make his move.
There was no longer any doubt in Ted Woods'
mind. The Indian was up to no good, so he walked more
rapidly to close the gap between them.
The coat store was a trading post that bought direct
from trappers and ranchers. Although Claudia could buy
skins of beaver, lynx or fox and then sew them
together, the hides were thick and she had no, experience
in trimming furs. She decided to get a
readymade coat of sheepskin.
The proprietor asked ten dollars for it, but she
engaged in spirited bargaining and was able to buy it for seven.
Feeling pleased with herself, she left the store with the
other two women, carrying it over her arm.
Tall Oak had decided to wait no longer. The
waterfront brothels were close to the store, and he was
afraid the women might duck into one of them before
he could make his desires known. So he approached
them boldly, pointing a grubby finger at Cindy.
"Tall Oak want," he said. "Pay
plenty."
All three girls were startled, and Cindy was
outraged. "Go away!" she said.
The Kiowa was offended. "Have plenty money. Pay as
much as white man."
Several passersby were watching, and the embarrassed
Claudia wanted no scene. "Let's just ignore
him," she said, and began to move away. But she paid
no attention to where she was going, and Tonie, flanking
Cindy on the other side in order to protect her,
made the same mistake. Before they realized it they
had reached the wharves that faced the Mississippi
River.
Tall Oak felt that the redhead believed she was
too good for him. He persisted in badgering her,
following close on her heels and repeating his offer
in a loud voice that caused everyone within earshot
to stare.
Ted Woods began to close in. But he was forced
to halt when a cart loaded with merchandise from a river
barge camejjetween him and his quarry. The driver
arrogantly assumed he had the right of way, and his
horses would have run Ted down if the blacksmith
hadn't stopped.
There seemed to be no escape as the girls
retreated onto a wharf that jutted out into the
Mississippi.
By now Tall Oak was convinced that the red-haired
girl was teasing him in order to get more money, so he
shouted, "Pay silver dollar! Go bed all day!"
A number of the ferrymen and boat owners were loitering
in the disvicinity. Realizing that the girls must be
from the wagon train, they gathered at the foot of the
wharf to watch the fun.
Arriving at the foot of the wharf, Ted Woods pushed
through their ranks and instantly antagonized them. A
burly ferry operator shoved him back in
return, causing Ted to stagger and lose his balance.
When he pulled himself to his feet, he was angry and
it appeared that a fight would develop.
The ferryman saw the long-handled hammer in the
blacksmith's hand and drew a knife. Ordinarily
Ted would have plunged into a fight without hesitation, but
now it was more important to him to protect Cindy
than to teach this lout a lesson. First he would dispose
of the Indian, and then he'd attend to the ferry
operator.
But the other rivermen were not to be denied their sport.
They closed ranks in front of him as he tried
to move onto the wharf to gain access to the
girls.
"Let the Kiowa have the wench!" one roan called.
"Well take the other twol"
A large crowd had begun to gather, and Ted was
blocked. He was tempted to clear a path for himself with
his hammer, but realized he'd be cut down by a
score of men armed with knives and pistols.
Meanwhile the girls knew they were trapped. They
went all the way to the far end of the wharf, where they were
forced to halt. A grinning Tall Oak pursued
them, groping for Cindy.
Reverting to the habits of her Louisville days,
she cursed him. Tall Oak was too drunk to pay
any attention to what she said. But the rivermen heard
her, too.
Only harlots used that kind of language, as they
well knew, and they were encouraged.
"Maybe we'll take all three of them!" one of the
group shouted. "And to hell with the Kiowa!"
Claudia and Tonie tried to appear calm, but
both were badly frightened. Neither knew how to cope with the
ugly situation that was developing, and Cindy was too
busy fending off the Indian to offer any suggestions.
Ted knew he'd have to act before things got out of
control, regardless of the consequences.
Then two men, moving shoulder to shoulder, made their
way through the crowd. "Clear a path here!" Sam
Brenrwood ordered, and the ring of authority in his
voice, combined with the sight of his rifle, caused the
other men to stand aside.
Stalking Horse, Sam's companion, was holding his
bone-handled knife in his dishand, ready to slash any
riverman who continued to block their path.
Everyone in the waterfront crowd was familiar with
Indians, and none of them wanted to tangle with this
sober, grim Cherokee whose attitude was
unyielding.
Sam and Stalking Horse reached the wharf, then
turned.
Claudia was so relieved to see them she felt
weak. She exchanged a wan smile with Tonie.
Cindy was still fending off Tall Oak, who was paying
no attention to the commotion at the land end of the wharf.
"Ted Woods!" Sam called. "Join me!" Now
the rivermen made no attempt to block Ted as he
moved onto the wharf. Sam handed him a pistol, then
raised his voice.
"People who enjoy molesting ladies get what they
deserve. I reckon I'll have to teach some manners
to any man who doesn't go about his own
business. Now!" He continued to face the crowd and
calmly raised his rifle to his shoulder.
A number of men found it convenient to take themselves
elsewhere, and the mob began to melt away.
"Ted," Sam said, "hold the line here with Stalking
Horse. If any man tries to set foot on this
pier, shoot him, and shoot to kill!"
Ted Woods' lips parted in a humorless smile as
he and the Cherokee faced the diehards in the crowd.
Sam wasted no time. Moving quickly to the far end of the
wharf, holding his rifle in his left hand, he lashed
out at Tall Oak with his right, striking so swiftly
and with such power that the Kiowa had no chance to duck or
protect himself.
The blow caught him foil in the face, and he
sagged. Then Sam readied out with a loot and
contemptuously shoved him off the wharf. Tall Oak
fell into the muddy waters of the Mississippi, where
he floundered before finding firm ground and staggering toward
the near bank.
"Stay close behind me," Sam told the girls,
wasting no words and heading back toward the shore end
of the wharf.
They followed him, huddling together and clutching their
purchases.
"Stalking Horse," he ordered, speaking in
English for the benefit of the remaining rivermen, "bring
up the rear. And don't hesitate to cut the hand off
any man who even touches one of these ladies!
Ted, stay
beside me and blow the head off anybody who doesn't
move out of our way in one almighty hurry." He
emphasized his orders by raising his rifle to his
shoulder again.
The ierry operators and boatmen didn't want
another confrontation with this mountain man, who had ice
water running in his veins. They scattered, leaving the
end ol the wharf free.
But Sam took no chances. Ted beside him, he marched
slowly back from the river, Stalking Horse bringing
up the rear behind the three young women. Not until they
had walked the equivalent of two full blocks
did Sam somewhat relax his vigilance.
"We're not staying in this part of town," he said.
"Keep walking. Fast, but not too fast, and we'll
soon be out of trouble."
As they headed toward the wagon train on the
outskirts of the town, no one had the temerity
to follow them, and the crisis ended as abruptly as it
had started. Sam took no chances, however,
and doubled the guards on sentry duty. It was
possible, he explained, that the disgruntled ferry
owners and boatmen might try to obtain revenge
by creating mischief, and he didn't want to be
caught unprepared.
He had another reason, too, which he confided only
to Dr. Martin and Ernst von Thalman. While in
town he had visited old friends at nearby Fort
"Jefferson, commonly called Jefferson
Barracks by residents of Missouri. There he
learned that a "cage convoy," wagons with bars on
all sides that were used to transport criminals,
had encountered a serious mishap on the road.
Forty military prisoners, most of them deserters
who had been recaptured and were regarded as
dangerous, had managed to escape from their cages.
They had killed or wounded most of the troops in the
platoon that had been escorting the convoy to St.
Louis.
"I don't want to alarm folks
unnecessarily," Sam said. "I don't think the
deserters would be stupid enough to attack a wagon
train of this size. All the same, those men must
want horses and food and weapons, so we might be
a tempting target. I've already told
Stalking Horse that when we start out again I want
him to keep his eyes open for the prisoners on his
scouting trips."
"Is there much chance the Army will pick them up
soon?" Ernst asked.
"Well, a number of cavalry patrols have been
sent out of Jefferson on search missions," Sam
replied. "I have a lot of confidence in them. They
know they've got to pick up that gang before more people are
killed and hurt. Just keep what I've told you
to yourselves for now. I don't want to make our people
jittery without good reason."
The others agreed to say nothing.
Sam left them and went in search of Claudia.
He found her emerging from her wagon after putting
away her new sheepskin coat
She came ta him at once. "I haven't thanked
you properly for your help on that pier just now," she
said. "I don't know what would have happened to us if you
hadn't shown up when you did."
I
"I don't want your thanks." Sam sounded
curt. "All I ask is that you stay out of trouble."
Claudia became indignant. "We didn't
deliberately get into difficulty, you
know! Tonie and I had no idea that mob would form,
and neither did Cindy, I'm sure. All we knew
was that we were being followed by that drunken Indian."
"You're on the frontier now," he said, "and it's
easy to get yourself killed by making just one little
mistake."
"May I ask what we might have done to avoid an
unpleasantness that none of us enjoyed?" She couldn't
keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Sam shrugged. "Anybody can give advice after
something nasty has happened," he said. "The trick
is learning how to avoid trouble in the first place."
Apparently, she felt, he was still blaming her for
something beyond her control. "All three of us were in the
same spot," she said, feeling aggrieved. "Why do
you single me out for your little lecture?"
Sam looked at her. There was an expression in his
eyes that she had never before seen. "Maybe," he
said, finding it difficult to get the words out, "you mean
more to me than those others."
Before the astonished Claudia could reply, he moved
away, not glancing at her again.
As she watched him cross the compound, his limp more
pronounced than usual, she was stunned. Under no
circumstances had she expected him
to express a personal interest in her. It was
impossible for her to guess how long he had harbored
such feelings. All she knew for certain was that his
brief declaration changed the nature of their
relationship.
She was unsure how she felt toward him, but she
knew she was flattered. Her self-discipline was so
great that she had not allowed herself to dwell on the
possibility of becoming involved in a romance with
Sam, but she realized that she had been suppressing
her own natural desires.
It had been a long time-far too long-since she had
permitted herself to think of marrying again. But in spite
of the differences in her background and Sam's, she had
to admit that the idea neither alarmed nor upset her.
The day was warm, but Claudia felt a sudden chill
move slowly up her spine, and she rubbed her arms
vigorously, then retreated to her wagon so no one
could see the color that suffused her face.
Sam, meantime, was startled by his unexpected
brashness. He was rarely impulsive, but the words
had popped out before he could halt them, before he could
even think about them or weigh their impact. He had
been badly shaken by Claudia's narrow escape from
an ugly situation that could have had serious
consequences for her.
But he needn't have gone so far. Good Lord! He had
virtually proposed marriage to her. Now she had every
right to expect such a proposal. Remembering how
her eyes had widened, how her lips had parted in
surprise and how the color had risen to her face,
he knew she'd have every right to be hurt and deeply
insulted if he just let the whole matter drop.
He was afraid of no man on earth, but he sure
didn't want Claudia Humphries to laugh,
at him. Not that she'd looked as though she feit like
laughing, he had to grant that.
But the very idea of marrying her-marrying anyone, for that
matter-stunned him. In a few weeks, he'd be
forty years old. He couldn't imagine why a
beautiful woman would want to spend the rest of her
life with a crusty old bachelor. Or why he'd
want to be tied down to any female that headstrong and
opinionated.
One thing was certain. He'd never be able to tame her.
But he'd be damned if he'd let her lead him
around by the nose, either.
Well, his choice was simple: either propose, or
avoid the woman as he would the plague. It
annoyed Sam that he was too confused to think
straight. That almost never happened to him. Thank the
lord, he still had time to find his way through this unfamiliar
forest. Before the wagon train reached Independence
he'd have to try to figure out where he stood. The
worst of it was, he had no way of knowing whether
she'd accept or reject him. Life had been a
lot less complicated when he lived alone in the
mountains.
The wagon train left St. Louis and started toward
the Missouri River, intending to follow it across the
state to Independence, on the final leg of the journey
across the settled portion of America. In another
month the pioneers would arrive at this outpost of
civilization, before going on into the wilderness.
Even as the last of the wagons were bumping down the
rutted dirt road that led to the river, Henry St.
Clair and his companions arrived in St. Louis after
making their camp nearby, absenting themselves from the town
as long as the pioneers stayed there. Henry owed himself
a few good meals, and he knew that his unreliable
subordinates required a day or two of diversion
before they picked up the trail of the caravan again.
Abe Ellis was the best of the sorry lot. Buying
the former driver of the special wagon a drink of
whiskey in a riverfront tavern, Henry
reflected that the man
would function willingly enough after he saturated himself with
liquor and visited one of the neighborhood
brothels. Ellis had one asset: he was thoroughly
familiar with the wagon train. Ultimately that knowledge
could be used to good advantage.
Digby and Lemon, in the British agent's
opinion, were virtually useless. The former was inept
and the latter was a whiner, always sorry for himself. Perhaps
it would be wise to pay them a few dollars and be rid
of them, but Henry was reluctant to part company
until he figured out a plan of action to cripple
the wagon train beyond repair. He knew he needed
helpers, and it was better to have Digby and Lemon
than no one.
Contenting himself with a small mug of ale, as Ellis
made inroads on a bottle of whiskey, Henry
paid scant attention to a scruffy Kiowa brave who
shuffled into the place. But a half-dozen men standing
at the bar immediately took note of the Indian's
presence. "Well," one of them boomed, "if it
isn't the great loverl Are you following any more
women from the Oregon train around town, Tall
Oak?"
Tall Oak didn't reply. But
Henry's interest was sparked. To Ellis's
surprise he called the Indian to the table and offered
him some whiskey. Tall Oak eagerly accepted.
Questioning him gently, Henry learned the whole story
of the incident that had disrupted the waterfront and almost
caused a riot The British agent didn't know
Ted Woods, but he realized that he was making
progress when Tall Oak expressed his burning
hatred for Sam Brentwood. This opportunity was
too great to be missed.
"The man-with-the-rifle," Henry said, "hit you and
kicked you into the river. Now everyone laughs at
Tall Oak. So Tall Oak wants to prove
he's a man. He'll do this when everyone laughs at
the man-with a-rifle."
The Kiowa nodded gravely.
"It will be done." Henry spoke slowly, so the
Kiowa would comprehend every word. "Also there will be
whiskey for Tall Oak to drink and food for
him
to eat."
Abe Ellis, who hated all Indians, poured
himself a stiff shot and downed it. Henry St.
Clair ignored him. If necessary he would sever his
ties with Ellis in order to gain the
services of this sorry warrior. Ellis'
usefulness was limited, and an officer of the Crown who
sought advancement took advantage of every break.
Tall Oak, delighted with his good fortune, reached
for the whiskey bottle. Henry deftly moved it to the
far side of the table. In the days ahead he had
to maintain a difficult balance, that of satisfying the
pathetic brave's craving for alcohol while
simultaneously keep- nig him sober enough
to destroy the wagon train. Such a challenge was
worthy of the talents of a man who hoped to give up
field work for all time in order to spend the rest of his
career lolling behind a comfortable desk in London.
The wharf incident influenced Tonie Mell more than
she realized. She had thought of herself as a resilient
woman of the frontier, almost impervious to the fears
suffered by ordinary members of her sex. But she'd
been as frightened as Claudia and Cindy, though she'd
been prepared to fight for her honor. It was a shock
to discover that she was as vulnerable as other women to the
threat of abuse and rape.
Hating herself for what she regarded as weakness,
Tonie tried to compensate by becoming more efficient in
her duties. As the wagon train moved slowly out
of the prairie flatlands and into the rolling
hill country that covered much of Missouri, she
took her duties as monitor so seriously that many
members of the caravan became annoyed.
The road that ran parallel to the Missouri River
on the south bank was little more than a trail, forcing the
wagons into a long, single line again. Most of the
travelers were weary, others were careless. The train
stretched out interminably behind Sam Brentwood in the
vanguard. In some areas forests of cedar, elm and ash,
sycamore, linden and hickory grew close to the
road, making it difficult for monitors to ride
up and down the line, which further irritated Tonie.
From the time the march started out early hi the morning,
until a clearing large enough to accommodate the
wagons was found in the afternoon, Tonie pounded
mercilessly at the drivers, shouting at them until
she grew hoarse. Some abused her in return,
others ignored her, and she rapidly lost much of the
good will she had accumulated.
At least it was no problem to obtain fresh meat for the
company. Buffalo by the thousands roamed through the
fertile valleys of Missouri. Every day or two
a small party of hunters went out at the end of the
march, some under Sam's leadership, others led by
Ernst von Thalman. These groups almost
always returned with buffalo meat. Unfortunately for
Tonie, she was not asked to join the hunting
expeditions, which further contributed to her sour mood.
One day she decided to accompany the hunters, no
matter what their wishes.
Ernst, who was in charge, was more brusque than he
intended. "We needed you when game was scarce," he
said. "But there are so many buffalo around here that we're
trying to train the amateurs in the art of hunting.
We don't need you, so stay behind."
Tonie was so insulted she went to the bank of the
Missouri, perched on a boulder and stared at the
churning waters of the mighty river. It was there that
Dr. Martin found her a short time later. "Are you
ill?" he asked.
"I don't see what difference it makes."
Tonie didn't bother to speak civily.
"I was asking for information in a professional
capacity," Robert Martin said, tempering his comment
with a smile.
Tonie didn't want to become embroiled in a
dispute with this charming, solicitous man whose grin
made her
dizzy.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "There's
nothing wrong with me except a foul temper, so I
urge you to leave me alone."
He sat beside her on the boulder, and took his time
stuffing his pipe. "Tonie," he said, "you're
suffering from a malady that can be cured."
Uncertain whether he was patronizing her, she made
no reply.
You're planning to leave the wagon train soon," the
physician said, "and that's your problem. You don't
want to leave."
"Rubbish! No one really likes the discomforts on
the trail, so why wouldn't I want to leave?"
"As Sam well knows-and as you told me yourself in
confidence-you made a great personal sacrifice for the
sake of this company's success. So you don't want
to quit when the most difficult parts of the journey still
lie ahead."
He understood her too well, she thought. She had
to concede that he made sense. "Maybe so," she
admitted.
"There's another reason, too. You're afraid that
life on your uncle's ranch will be dull, and you
don't want to miss the excitement when the wagon
train gets to Oregon."
He was mistaken, Tonie told herself,
hi triumph. His guess was shrewd, but he was
wide of the mark. But at least he had opened her
eyes to something she should have recognized, something she
couldn't tell him: Robert Martin himself was the
basic cause of her unhappiness. She hated the
prospect of being separated from him, knowing they'd never
meet again, but she couldn't admit the truth to someone
who thought of her as a tomboy. At least the St.
Louis rivermen had been aware of her as a woman.
Dr. Martin could feel her bristling, though he
couldn't imagine what he might have said
to antagonize her. Obviously he hadn't
improved her mood, so perhaps it was best to leave her
to her own devices. He stood, then climbed down
the boulder to the ground.
"Don't stay here by yourself too long," he said. "It
may not be safe."
She felt a sharp stab of disappointment. "This is
my home state. I can't imagine any harm coming
to me in Missouri."
He waved cheerfully but without comment as he made his
way back up to the circle of wagons.
Tonie was in despair. It was horrid to fall in
love with a man who treated you like a younger brother.
If she were endowed with Claudia
Humphries' beauty, or Cindy's blatant
sex appeal, she might be able to attract him. But
she was wasting her substance on wishes that would never come
true.
It was easy now to give in to tears, and she wept
silently, facing the river so no one looking at her
from the camp would realize she was unhappy. Her
emotional outburst solved nothing, failed
to improve her spirits and only succeeded in causing her
to feel greater contempt for herself because of her temporary
weakness.
She was as lacking in feminine wiles as she was in
grace, condemned, she guessed, to spending the rest of
her days alone.
Henry St. Clair and his motley group of
subordinates remained a half day's journey behind
the wagon train, riding on trails that led through
thick forests near the Missouri River. Henry
knew time was growing short-if he hoped to strike an
effective blow before the caravan reached Independence.
Thereafter, it would move for hundreds of miles across the
Great Plains, where there were few trees. Such lack
of cover
would make it far mote difficult for him to operate.
He made plan after plan as he rode,
rejecting each in turn because the odds were too great The
truth of the matter was simple: he could depend only
on himself: Abe Ellis would do well enough if
cornered. And Tall Oak, if he remained
sober, might be capable of performing some simple
function, provided a suitable scheme could be
devised. But Lemon and Digby, for all their
glib talk, were small-time criminals who would
take no risks that might endanger their lives.
Sam Brentwood was a resourceful opponent, and
Henry knew he must hold the element of surprise
in his favor. Otherwise, Brentwood would-hold the
advantage, particularly since there were so many men in
the wagon train now. The only way an assault
could be effective would be to find some way
to neutralize all that manpower.
Henry was lost in thought, ignoring the low hum of his
companions' conversation as they rode in single file
behind him. His cleverness had won him three decorations
in the past, and the greatest prize of all, a permanent
return to London, awaited him after one more display
of ingenuity. It was all a matter of utilizing the
personnel at his command in the best way.
Suddenly a disreputable man in a filthy blue
suit, hatless, a heavy stubble of beard
on his face, appeared on the trail directly
ahead. He was brandishing a knife.
Henry halted and cocked his rifle. If this was an
attempted robbery, he would be merciless.
"If you're a-comin' after us," the man said, "there's
no way you'll leave this forest alive. The Lynx will
see to that. Ain't nobody goin' to arrest us!"
From this gibberish, Henry gleaned that the man was a
fugitive of some sort. "Who is the Lynx?" he
asked, playing for time and hoping to learn more.
"You'll find out!" There was bravado behind the man's
shrill words.
Abe Ellis leaned forward in his saddle and spoke
softly. "That there looks like a U.s. Army
uniform without the brass buttons," he muttered.
All at once the pieces of the puzzle fell
into place. Of course! Before leaving St. Louis
Henry had heard a rumor that a band of Army
deserters had murdered their convoy guards and were being
hunted. Henry was quick to seize the opportunity.
"We have no intention of arresting anyone, and no
authority for that purpose. I'd like to speak to the
Lynx."
The disreputable man pointed through the forest "Follow that
line of maples," he said. "I'll be right
behind you, so no tricks."
Ellis drew his pistol as he followed Henry, but
Dig- by and Lemon hesitated. Tall Oak, who
had been given no arms, merely shrugged.
Henry rode into a clearing where a number of men were
roasting sides of lamb, obviously stolen from a
nearby farm, over an open fire. Other men were
repairing lean-to shelters at the side of the
clearing, and still others sprawled on the ground, doing
nothing.
The appearance of the strangers galvanized the entire
group. They moved forward slowly in twos and
threes, surrounding the new arrivals. A few
carried rifles, and several were armed with pistols, but
the majority had no weapons except knives or
clubs. All
wore tattered blue from which the insignia had been
removed.
None spoke, and it was apparent the deserters were
seeking the easiest way to unseat these riders and
kill them.
A massive man who stood a head taller than the
others came to the forefront, his hair and beard
streaked with silver, a dead officer's sword in his
hand.
Henry sought an advantage by speaking first. "You're
the Lynx," he said,
"Who told you?" The man was taken by surprise.
"Your sentry. As I told him, we're not
constables. We have no authority to arrest anyone-and no
interest hi making arrests."
Several of the deserters inched closer. "Be good enough
to stand back," Henry said coolly, "or I'll be
obliged to shoot you. Now, then." He addressed
himself exclusively to the Lynx; if his estimate was
right, this giant could, control the others. "You
outnumber us rather heavily, and I have no doubt you could
dispose of us, though I assure you I'd take some
of you with me. Be reasonable. Five horses and a
few guns will do you no good when there are at least
thirty of you."
"Thirty-four, accordin' to this momin's muster," one
deserter said.
Henry nodded. "Suppose I provide you with
clothes that will make you less noticeable. Suppose
I also obtain horses and weapons for all of you-was
"Why the hell would you do that?" the leader interrupted.
His gleaming eyes resembled those of a wild animal,
Henry thought. "I have my own private reasons.
I'm willing to provide you with the means
to get away from the Army patrols that are combing the
whole area. I'm also willing to provide you with an
opportunity to acquire a vast quantity of
loot. Yes, and there'll be pretty women who'll
be yours for the taking, too."
"I don't like bad jokes," the Lynx growled.
"This is no joke, I assure you," Henry said.
"Be good enough to give me a chance to explain. If you
won't," he added, his rifle aimed straight at the
leader, "I swear I'll take care of you before your
men can kill me."
Although the Lynx was a man of limited intellect,
he recognized courage when he saw it, and he
roared with laughter. "Maybe you're all right.
You've got guts, I have to hand you that much. Lads,
give these gents breathing room so's we can listen."
The deserters backed away, increasing the space between
them.
Henry lowered his rifle, but was ready to use it
instantly if the need arose. "Unless I'm
mistaken we're partway between the towns of St.
Charles and Washington," he said. "We'll buy you
civilian pants and shots in both towns, and
we'll pick up horses that local farmers are
willing to sell. We'll get you rifles,
too, by legitimate means. I don't want the
Army patrols and constables breathing down our necks.
Our mission is too important."
The Lynx was becoming impatient. "What mission?
You talk fancy, but we don't know why you're
planning to be so good to us."
"Less than a half days inarch from here," Henry
said quietly, "there's a wagon train bound for the
Oregon country. It is making a journey
sponsored by the U.s. Government. Some of the
funds are supplied by John Jacob Astor and
other rich men. Hundreds of people are in that train. I
want it destroyed, so thjBut people will have to turn
back."
"How come?" the leader demanded,
"Isn't it enough that I have my own reasons-and that Tm
willing to pay you handsomely?" Henry countered. "And
that's not all. There's one wagon in the train that has
a false bottom. It's filled with gold. You men
may take and share every last penny of that money."
"Can you show us which wagon it is?"
"Certainly. And there's another that's crammed with a
fortune in supplies. Abe, tell them about the
special wagon."
Abe Ellis felt ill at ease, but
he described the contents of the special wagon in
detail. He had gone too far to back out now.
The deserters were impressed, as well they should have
been.
Looking around the circle of hungry, desperate
men, Henry struck hard. "You're being offered real
freedom," he said. "Clothes, transportation,
rifles. The chance to help yourself to gold and precious
supplies. When you scatter, you can make new
lives for yourselves. What do you say?"
There was a long, tense silence before one of the men
called, "If you're buyin' us all those things,
mister, you must have plenty of money yourself."
Here, Henry realized, was the greatest personal
danger he had yet faced. Not even Abe Ellis
and the other members of his little band knew he carried an
ample supply of gold and American paper money
in a belt he wore under his clothes. If the
deserters discovered it, they would almost certainly kill
him. "I have my own ways of obtaining funds that I
need," he said, and moved rapidly to another point
he wanted to make, "Abe, here, can take two of
you off to St. Charles," he said. "You can change
clothes temporarily with these two." He indicated
the unhappy Digby and Lemon, who were
finally of some use to him. "I'll stay here myself as a
hostage to prove my good faith."
His terms were so fair and generous that even the Lynx was
impressed. "All we have to do is attack that
wagon train, huh?"
"Under my direction," Henry replied with
emphasis. "You'll do it when I tell you and in the
way I tell you. I assume that some of you were in the
cavalry and that others were infantrymen, right?"
No deserter was willing to discuss his past, and there was
another long silence.
"It doesn't matter," Henry said. "Once
we're properly organized I'll take the
Lynx with me on a scouting trip to find the right
spot for an attack. Then I'll plan a
diversion. Simple tactics are always the best."
The former soldiers could not help responding to someone
who addressed them with the crisp authority of an
officer long accustomed to giving commands. The Lynx
spoke for the whole group when he said, "The way it
looks to me, we got nothing to lose by accepting your
bargain, mister. If you cheat us, or go back on
your word, that'll be the end of you and your friends comincluding
this Indian."
"He's going to be very valuable to us,"
Henry said with a smile. "In fact, he's going
to provide the diversion."
"Will there be much of a chance of gettin' shot up by the
fellers hi the wagon train?" one man wanted
to know.
"Not the way I'm going to plan this surprise,"
Henry said. "They have a few marksmen in their
ranks, to be sure, but we'll see to it that they're
otherwise occupied when we move in."
The deserters seemed to accept his word.
At last, he thought fervently, everything was falling
into place. He had a small army of experienced
troops at his disposal now, and provided he
developed his plans with his usual meticulous
attention to detail, the days of the wagon train were
numbered.
The outfitting of the para-military expedition
proceeded with great caution. Limited quantities
of clothing were purchased at each of the shops in nearby
towns and country stores, so no merchant would become
suspicious. Abe Ellis went out with small
groups of deserters to bargain with farmers for one or
two horses at a time. Then Digby and Lemon,
after their own attire was returned to them, did the
same.
Meantime the group continued to move toward the West,
keeping pace with the wagon train. Henry was
determined to use even greater discretion in purchasing
firearms, and he handled this phase of the operation himself,
usually accompanied by the Lynx.
There was no lack of muskets, rifles and pistols
on sale, particularly at the small crossroads
stores frequented by Missouri farmers who kept
their weapons handy, both at home and when they worked in
the fields.
The Lynx complained about the quality of some of the guns
they bought, but Henry explained that they had little
choice. When he could find a long rifle like those
used by the mountain men, he hastened to buy it, but when
he was offered only a forty-year-old flintlock he
had to take it too.
Gradually he accumulated stores of gunpowder,
supplies of lead and bullet molds. One by one the
deserters gained new attire, horses and
adequate weapons. Like the members of the wagon
train they could shoot buffalo now, so there was no
starvation in the ranks. And the Lynx, impressed
by Henry's firm arguments, saw to it that none of his
men robbed fanners they encountered in the woods, or
looted unoccupied houses. The band was
safe, Henry emphasized, only as long as they
committed no unlawful acts.
There were setbacks, to be sure. Four of the
deserters promptly disappeared as soon as they were
clothed, mounted and armed. Digby and Lemon,
accustomed to dealing in stolen goods on a petty
scale, found the prospects of violent action so
abhorrent that they, too, vanished into the forest and were not
seen again."
Then Abe Ellis created a problem. Since he
had been dismissed from the wagon train for dishonesty, and
had subsequently been wounded by Sam Brent-
wood, he had been eager to even the score. But the
realization had dawned on him that he was now involved
in matters beyond his depth. Not only was Henry St.
Clair determined to destroy the train, but his
alliance with a gang of desperate, hardened Army
deserters caused grave potential
difficulties.
The plan to launch a full-scale attack on the
train and rob it meant that many people would die, and
Ellis had no desire to be hunted by federal and
state authorities on charges of murder. Sooner
or later, he believed, the Army's search
patrols would track down the deserters, and
he could be further prosecuted for aiding fugitives
from justice.
Stealing the property of others didn't bother his
conscience, but serious criminal acts that could send him
to prison for years, or even have him hanged, placed
him in a different category. He had drifted
into a situation beyond his control, and he began to long for the
safety of his Albany home, where the presence of his
wife and children gave him at least a facade of
respectability.
The last straw was the association with Tall Oak that
he couldn't avoid. The Kiowa, who was slovenly,
lazy and regularly supplied with liquor by Henry
in order to keep him in line, represented all that
Abe loathed in Indians.
After growing increasingly uneasy and upset, the former
driver of the special wagon made up his mind to part
company with St. Clair and the deserters. Just the knowledge that
they intended to engage in the wanton killing of men and
women he knew made him
He was reluctant to leave, however, until he
received the payment of fifty cents per day that he had
been promised. The journey from Missouri to upper
New York was long and arduous, and Abe, always
greedy for noney, was anxious to fatten his
purse before he departed.
That desire created complications. He knew he
wouldn't receive a penny if St. Clair had any
inkling that he intended to pull out before the attack on the
wagon train took place. So he decided
to resort to a ruse. His normal thinking process
was slow and ponderous, and the various schemes that came
to his mind were as feeble as they were transparent. He
had the good sense to reject them, and finally came to the
conclusion that it would be best to demand payment of his
wages without offering any explanation at all.
That night, as the deserters were roasting buffalo meat
over their cooking fire, Henry sat apart from them,
deliberatefy maintaining the distance that commissioned,
officers observed in their relations with enlisted men.
Abe went to him and sat on the ground beside him.
"Henry," he said, reciting the speech he'd been
rehearsing for several days, "I've been thinking. You
owe me a lot of money. We've been together a long
time now, and you owe me more than twenty dollars."
"I'm good for it," Henry assured him. "You'll
also get your bonus, remember, after we put the
wagon train out of commission."
"I don't like it when I'm owed money. I want
to be paid up to date."
Henry studied him for a moment "Planning to take off
on your own, Abe?"
"Oh, no. No. Nothing like that."
It was obvious to Henry that the man was lying. "I
hope not. It would make me very unhappy if you went
to Jefferson Barracks and told the colonel in
command there where he could find the missing deserters."
"Why would I do a stupid thing like that?"
"Oh, to put yourself in good with the authorities. You
might even hope you'd be paid a reward for the
information.""
"I'm no turncoat!" Abe was indignant.
"I hope not. I can't help wondering, though, to f
maybe you dont have the stomach for the plan we've been
developing."
"You know what I think of Brentwood. I want
to put a bullet into him before anybody else has the
chance." Abe hoped he sounded convincing.
He didn't. Henry St. Qair, whose career had
long depended on nuances in his dealings with others,
heard a shallow undertone that convinced him that the man was
putting up a front.
"I just want to be paid what's due me, that's
all," Abe insisted.
Looking at him again, Henry saw that he was
fidgeting with the frayed cuffs of his shirt, his gaze
averted. The man reeked of guilt.
There were two ways of handling a matter that could become
crucial. Pay Ellis, and he would sneak away
at the first opportunity. Refuse to pay him, and
he'd hang around for a time, but prpbably get cold
feet and depart before the actual attack on the
wagon train took place.
Henry's one consideration was that nothing interfere with his
plan to destroy the Oregon-bound caravan. He
suffered no illusions about Abe Ellis,
certainly: the man was venal. He would do anything
to pick up a few dollars. If he could notify
the authorities of the intended attack, much less
put the Army on the trail of the missing deserters,
he'd be in a position to demand a substantial
reward, if one wasn't voluntarily offered to him.
So there was only one safe method of dealing with the
situation. "I don't want you to be unhappy in this
enterprise, Abe," Henry said. "After all,
I'm relying on you." He reached into a pocket,
drew out two $10 bills and gave them to the man.
Unable to hide his surprise and pleasure, Abe
snatched the money.
"Remember, I'm counting on you," Henry
said again, and patted him on the shoulder.
Making his way back to the campfire, Abe made
a wide detour in order to avoid Tall Oak.
In spite of his , fears, his quest had been
successful. Now he was free to do as he pleased.
Henry watched him and smiled. Then, seemingly lost
in a reverie, he stared into the flames until the meal
was ready. His own supper could wait, and he allowed
the deserters to hack off slabs of meat first Then he
beckoned to the Lynx.
The leader of the band was already wolfing down his meal,
tearing a chunk of buffalo meat apart with
his bare hands and stuffing the pieces into his mouth. He
followed the Englishman to the edge of the woods.
"What would you do," Henry asked blandly, "if you
knew someone was going to ride to Jefferson Barracks
and tell the colonel where to find you and your friends?"
The man's small, deep-set eyes glittered.
He ripped off a piece of meat, held it in
front of his face and then snapped at it, cramming
it into his mouth in a single bite.
The Lynx was a beast, Henry thought, waiting for a
reply to his question.
"I'd cut the throat of the bastard," the Lynx
replied.
"Quietly," Henry replied. "After everyone
else goes off to sleep. We don't want any
of your men picking up dangerous ideas. It would be
too bad if one of them tried to win a pardon for
himself by turning in the rest of you."
The Lynx nodded, baring his yellow teeth.
"Naturally, you'd want to get something out of it for
yourself," Henry said casually. "I happen to know that the
traitor is carrying at least twenty dollars in
cash on his person."
The leader of the deserters remained silent, but his
jaws worked as though he were chewing, and a froth of
spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth.
Wiping his sticky fingers on the sides of his new
trousers, he flexed his long, thick fingers.
It was easy to imagine him curling those fingers around a
victim's neck, but Henry refused to allow himself
to become emotionally involved in matters that
didn't directly concern him. It was his way of
keeping his mind free for serious problems that might
influence the outcome of his mission.
"Who is he?" the Lynx demanded.
Henry looked slowly around the fire and found Abe,
standing alone, gnawing on a piece of meat. He
inclined his head slightly in that direction.
"Ellis?"
Henry nodded, then wandered away.
The fate of Abe Ellis was sealed.
His body was found early the next morning in a
clump of bushes beyond the edge of the clearing. His
throat had been slashed, and his mouth was frozen in a
hideous grin. His pockets had been turned
inside out, but the deserters didn't think of robbery
as a motive because none of them had any money. But
they took care to strip the corpse and, before they
broke camp, they drew straws for his clothes, his
weapons and his horse.
Only at Henry St. Clair's last-minute
suggestion did they dig a shallow grave and throw
Abe's body in it before they moved on.
Henry knew he couldn't procrastinate. He had
to act soon. Most of the deserters were simpleminded
men, who thought only in terms of their own profit, as
Abe Ellis had done. It was imperative that the
attack on the wagon train be launched without
delay.
Henry rode ahead rapidly, and came at last
to an area where the terrain was perfect for his
purposes. A high bluff that extended for miles
rose behind the south bank of the Missouri
River and the narrow road that
ran beside it. The heights were heavily wooded, which would
enable him to conceal and shield his force. As nearly as
he could judge, there were few settlements in the
neighborhood, which would make it difficult for the
wagon train to obtain reinforcements. He couldn't have
chosen a more appropriate site if he had listed
his qualifications in advance. his
Rejoining his companions late in the afternoon, Henry
knew there was just one more task to be performed prior
to his assault. Though the hout was late, he sent
the majority of the deserters on a search for a salt
lick, instructing them to notify him the moment one was
located.
Two of the men returned within an hour to report that
they had found a lick on a hillside behind a
small pond. Henry issued new orders, and that
night he slept well. It wasn't often that he
allowed himself to relax in the field, but he had earned
the rest. It wasn't often that the details of an
operation dovetailed so neatly, but this scheme was
foolproof, and he congratulated himself before dropping
off to sleep.
This operation would become a classic, he
reflected. It would be studied by neophyte
espionage and sabotage agents for many years
to come.
At dawn the next morning Henry was awake. Before
the rest of the band stirred,
he
went off alone to the salt lick, carrying two
empty burlap sacks.
The deserters were eating breakfast when he returned.
Tall Oak sat alone, nursing an aching head and
awaiting the first swallow of whiskey or brandywine that
would ease his suffering. No one seemed to notice
that the burlap sacks that Henry carried across his
pommel had been filled.
He neither knew nor cared that the deserters" powers
of observation were limited. Only one thing mattered
to him: the survival of the wagon train was in
jeopardy. Within another day and a haUs, at the
outside, it would cease to exist.
Frictions develop within the ranks of any large
group traveling together under adverse living conditions,
and the wagon train was no exception. Claudia
Humphries was annoyed when she found Tonie
Mell chatting amiably with Sam Brentwood at
the end of a long day's march, and quarreled with the younger
girl. Grace Drummond accused
Cindy of flirting with her husband when Nat sat beside
the girl at supper, and was outraged when other
members of the company laughed at her for being jealous.
Terence and Lena Malcolm, kept awake nights
because the baby was teething, bickered over
inconsequentials. A weary Emily Harris
reprimanded her lively sons more severely than their
conduct warranted, and then was depressed for doing so.
Otto van Ayl lost his temper when Cathy
purchased new scissors to replace a pair she
lost, and refused to believe that she could do no mending
without them.
Ted Woods was kept busy every evening replacing the
iron rims of wagons worn out on the rugged
Missouri road, and got so little test that his nerves
were frayed. Even Danny, who continued to Tje
helpful to everyone, smiled less frequently.
Stalking Horse, however, was unchanged. Each day
he rode ahead to find a new campsite for that
night's halt. Perhaps his mood was unaffected because
he spent most of his time alone. Sam Brentwood
was counting the days until his responsibility for the
wagon train came to an end. After spending the
better part of his life on wilderness trails
by himself, he was tired of shepherding so many people.
But at least he'd found Claudia-for all the good it
did him. He knew he had fallen in love with
her, though she was hot-tempered and too independent for
her own good. She had chosen to ignore his broad
hint, however, and behaved as though he hadn't
indicated the state of his feelings. Maybe, Sam
thought, she was waiting for an outright proposal, but
though he had never feared any man, he lacked the
courage to ask her in so many words if she'd marry
him.
It was a relief to know that in another ten days or so
they would reach Independence. There the wagons would be
overhauled, new supplies would be forthcoming from the
government stores that had been sent ahead. And,
hopefully, Whip Holt would be waiting to relieve
Sam as wagonmaster and guide.
Forty-eight hours of unrelenting rain did nothing
to improve the company's spirits, and then the weather
turned cold. Summer had lingered beyond its time, but
now it was autumn, and some of the travelers were
concerned about the hardships of winter they would be forced
to face in the unmarked wilderness that lay ahead.
Shawls and sweaters that hadn't seen service for
months were removed from clothing boxes, and children were
bundled in scarves. Women put away
their cottons and wore their heavier woolens.
Only Sam and Stalking Horse seemed
impervious to the cold. Claudia, sleeping under a
blanket, wondered how Sam could be comfortable when he
stretched out at night with nothing between him and the hard
ground.
The animals, too, reacted sharply to the change in
the weather, the horses and oxen demonstrating greater
stamina, making it possible to shorten the nooning rest
period. Quincy became friskier, as did
Cindy's puppy.
It occurred to Claudia that schools were reopening for the
new term back home. She wondered what
arrangements could be made for the wagon-train children
to continue their education. Sam was amused by her
suggestion that classes be organized, and it quickly
developed that her idea simply wasn't
practical. The youngsters had too many chores
to perform, and their formal schooling therefore couldn't be
resumed until the company reached the Oregon
Territory and established permanent homes there.
Meanwhile the long journey continued.
At one pomt, a bluff rose to a height of more
than a hundred feet south of the Missouri. The
space between the' bluff and the bank of the river
was so narrow that it was unusually difficult to make the
circle each night But Sam insisted that such a
precaution be taken,
though they lost an extra half-hour or more of
travel time every evening by doing so.
The pioneers could see their breath on the air at
breakfast, and some of the women were reluctant to leave
the warmth of the campfiie when they heard the familiar
cry, "Harness your animals! Let's march!"
Tonie Mell, familiar with the countryside, knew
better than most that the caravan soon would reach
Independence. Because her uncle needed her help on
his ranch, she knew there was no way she could continue
the journey to Oregon, no way she could prolong
her association with Dr. Martin. Her mood
unhappy, she was mounted on her gelding every morning
even before the breakfast fires were extinguished, so
eager to break camp immediately that many people grew angry.
Tonie didn't care what they thought. "Let's go!
Hurry!" she called repeatedly. "We don't have
the whole day to waste!"
One by one the wagons moved slowly into line, the
space so cramped that some wagons had to move out and
start off down the road to the west before those at the rear
could be maneuvered into position.
Ted Woods, the last in line, half-dozed as he
sat on his buckboard, Danny beside him.
Gradually he became aware of a rasping sound that
grated on his ears. Sitting upright, he listened more
intently, and spoke urgently to the boy beside him.
"Danny," he said, "run ahead up the line till
you find Tonie Mell. Send her ahead to Sam as
fast as she can ride, and have her tell him to stop the
train. Quick, now!"
The boy asked no questions and sprinted up the road.
It took another ten minutes to halt the lead
wagons in the caravan. Sam galloped to the rear,
Tome behind him. They found Ted on his hands and
knees in the road, his face pressed between the
spokes of a wheel. A moment later they were joined
by a silent Stalking Horse, who hadn't yet
started out on his day's scouting trip.
Ted didn't look up. "Somebody threw sand
into these wheels," he said grimly. "I've examined
a half- dozen wagons, and the hubs of all of them
are coated with sand. Every last one will break down within a
few miles."
"Sand?" Tonie was incredulous. "I know this part of the
country pretty well. There's no sand here, not even
in the river bed!"
"See for yourself." Ted removed a smear of grease
from the inner hub of the wheel. Mixed with it on his finger
were many grains of what resembled sand.
Sam was on his hands and knees, too, looking first
at the wheels of one wagon, then going on to the
next. "This was no accident," he said, his voice
sharp. "This is deliberate sabotage. Tonie,
tell every wagon owner to look at his wheels."
Almost immediately reports began to filter back down
the line. Something had been mixed with the grease in the
wheels of at least a dozen wagons.
"Whatever this stuff is," Ted said, "it's got
to be- removed. The wheels have to be taken off one
by one, washed off with water, the axles cleaned with
rags, and fresh grease applied. This is going to be
an all-day job, even if you give me the help of
somebody who knows wheels and axles."
Sam sighed. "disTonie," he said, "turn the
wagons at the front of the line around. Have them double
back and reform last night's circle."
"That's a waste of time,"" she protested.
"Not if we're going to be here all day." He
returned his attention to the wheels.
Tonie hesitated for a moment, then rode forward, and
soon the laborious process of making a
new circle was under way.
"Whoever did this job was careless," Ted said.
"Look here. There are handfuls of muck covering the
axle of this wagon-and none on the next."
The people in the affected wagons clustered nearby,
angry and bewildered.
"I believe Tonie is right," Sam said.
"You've got to go hundreds of miles west of here
to the bed of the South Platte River before you'll find
sand."
Stalking Horse, who'd been standing motionless, bent
low and scooped up some grease mixed with granular
particles. He sniffed experimentally, then tasted the
substance on his finger. "Let the brother of Stalking
Horse eat, too," he said in Cherokee.
Sam unhesitatingly followed his example. They
exchanged a significant glance and spoke to each
other in rapid-fire Cherokee. At last Sam
turned to Ted and the wagon owners. "This substance,"
he said, "is a mixture of heavy sand and coarse
salt. It can be obtained only at the outer rim of a
salt lick. The inner part is usually pure salt,
and as you work out toward the edge you find a crust of earth
that's been dried by the salt and resembles sand. There
are salt licks all over
Missouri, but I'd guess the closest must be at
least twenty miles from here."",
Nat Drummond was outraged. "Damnation, Sam!
That means somebody carried this stuff a long, long
way just for the pleasure of throwing it. onto our
wheels."
"Right." Sam stood, thumbs hooked into his belt
and stared into space, frowning. "All I can figure
is that somebody was mighty anxious to turn this train
into an almighty shambles." He thought of Henry Still
Qair, but shook his head. It was unlikely that the
British agent had been trailing the caravan for
hundreds of miles.
"When we find him," Ted said, "I'd like to string him
up. Men, start taking one wheel off of each
wagon. Danny, get the water detail busy.
I reckon I'll need a few tons of it before this
day is over!"
While the messy, painstaking task of cleaning the
wheels and greasing them anew was being organized,
Stalking Horse wandered off the road to look
intently at the side of the bluff. Sam joined
him,
sensing what he was doing.
"There and there and there," the warrior said hi
Cherokee, jabbing his finger as he spoke, "only a
mountain goat could climb up and down."
"But here and here," Sam replied, also pointing, "a
man could make his way to the bottom and then return
to the top of the bluff."
With one accord they dropped to their hands and knees and
examined the earth with infinite care.
Other company members joined them, as their wag

cms were returned to the circle and their animals
unhitched. Claudia was one of the first. With Quincy
beside her, she watched Sam.
Stalking Horse shook his head, then moved on, and
soon Sam joined him. The shepherd dog bounded
forward, wagging his tail in greeting. Again Sam and
Stalking Horse crawled on their hands and knees,
studying every blade of grass. Quincy accompanied
them, sniffing at the ground.
Claudia wanted to call the dog back to her
side, but refrained. Sam would send
him
away fast enough if he interfered or became a
nuisance.
"Look here!" Stalking Horse pointed to a spot
a few inches in front of him. Sam
leaped to his feet and examined the place.
The witnesses were startled when Quincy comuttered a
deep, prolonged growl.
"It's a moccasin print, all right," Sam said.
"Folks, the damage probably was done by an
Indian, whatever his reason."
"Bad Indian," Stalking Horse added.
Quincy continued to smell the place, still growling.
Sam shaded his eyes and peered up at the forests that
extended to the edge of the bluff above. Within moments he
had made up his mind. "I want every wagon owner
to look at his wheels and axles," he said. "Any
that have had sand and salt thrown into them will have to be cleaned
and greased. Ted Woods needs help from any of you
who really know wagons."
Four men volunteered their services.
"Now," Sam said, his voice turning cold, "I
want
every man who regards himself as a marksman to step
forward."
About fifteen members of the company moved toward him.
He nodded in grim satisfaction. 'Tair enough.
There are two trails through the forest up yonder. So
we're forming two search parties to hunt down that
Indian and find out why he played this
filthy trick on us. Dr. Martin and I will lead
one, and Stalking Horse and Ernie von Thalman
will lead the other. If either group finds him, we
fire three shots as a signal, and well all
converge at the one place. Bring plenty of
ammunition and powder, boys. I have no idea what
we'll find."
Some of the men hurried back to their wagons for
bullets, and a few to fetch their rifles.
Meanwhile those who were ready joined one party or the
other. Tonie pushed forward through the crowd that had formed
and stood beside Claudia hi the front rank. "I
want to come with you," she called.
There was no humor in Sam's pale eyes.
"We're not going out for a day's sport. We aim
to find out why a deliberate act of sabotage was
committed against this wagon train. We don't know
what lies ahead, except that no Indian hi these
parts could be working on his own. So we may run
into danger. There's no place for a woman-any
woman-on this hunting trip, no matter how well
she thinks she can shoot."
Tonie flushed, but there was nothing she could say.
Sam's icy gaze turned from her to Claudia.
"It didn't occur to me to go with you," she
said mildly.
His quick smile indicated his appreciation. "If you
Bon't mind," he said, "I'd like to take Quincy
with us. Look at the way he's still sniffing around that
moccasin print. He could be a big help to us."
"Then take him, by all means," Claudia said.
She felt miffed at being excluded, just as Tonie
did, but knew that her attitude was absurd.
Sam's attention turned to the tasks at hand. 'Ted
Woods will be in charge of fixing up the wagons
while we're gone, and can call on anybody he
needs. Keep your animals inside the circle, and
I don't want any children to wander off and play. No
one is to leave the circle except members of the
water detail to go down to the river. They ought to play
it safe, too, by going in groups of three and four."
His orders weren't questioned, but Claudia wondered
whether he was anticipating trouble of some sort for those
who remained at the wagon-train site.
Sam seemed tojread her mind. "Folks who
take sensible precautions stay healthy," he told
her, before starting up the side of the bluff at the head
of his search party.
Members of both departing groups found it difficult
to maintain their balance on the steep slope.
They had to walk sideways, and even the shepherd
dog found it difficult to stay close to Sam, who
occasionally slipped, in danger of losing his footing.
"I need plenty of water, all I can get!" Ted
Woods called.
Claudia turned her attention to the organization of the
water detail. Mindful of Sam's instructions,
she sent people down to the river in threes and fours with
their buckets. The task of cleaning the gritty sand
and coarse salt from the wheel hubs was arduous, and
most of those who remained at the campsite offered
to help, even the older children. Cathy van Ayl and
Cindy took up a collection of rags, and Ted
Woods moved methodically from wheel to wheel,
demonstrating how the job should be done.
When Claudia looked up at the bluff again the
climbing men had disappeared.
There were no clues at the beginning of either trail
to indicate which path the guilty Indian had taken,
so Sam arbitrarily chose the one that meandered off
toward the right for himself and Dr. Martin, assigning the
other to Stalking Horse and Ernie von Thalman.
"Remember," he said, "three pistol shots will be
the signal to get together again."
He limped down the trail at a
snail's pace, pausing every few yards to give
Quincy an opportunity to sniff the ground. It was
possible, of course, that neither party was actually on the
track of the Indian who had damaged the wagons.
The Indian might have made off through the underbrush,
following neither path, but Sam was assuming that he'd
been in a hurry, anxious to put as much distance between
himself and the caravan as he could. If so, it would have been
far more difficult and time-consuming for him to cut his own
path or to risk being slowed down by patches of
brambles, fallen trees and other impediments.
The odds against finding the Indian were great, but Sam
felt it was imperative to conduct this hunt. He
found it strange that any one individual would have gone
to such lengths to disrupt the operation of the
train. It had been necessary to carry the sand and salt a
considerable distance from a lick to the banks of the
Missouri, and a single man ran the considerable risk
of being caught in the act of committing sabotage.
To the best of Sam's knowledge, no Indian was carrying a
grudge against the group as a whole or against him
personally. And he thought it unlikely that any
Indian would have chosen such a sophisticated method
of obtaining revenge.
Sam's thoughts returned to Henry St.
Clair, who was certainly capable of managing the
sneak assault and had reasons enough for wanting to halt
the train. It was also possible that the Russians
who'd tried to blackmail Tonie Mell were
responsible. But the only way of learning the truth
was to find the man who had actually performed the deed and
then wring a confession from him. Sam disliked the use of
violence when it could be avoided, but if and when he
caught the Indian he'd utilize any methods
at his disposal to unearth the whole story.
Dr. Martin, sometimes falling behind a pace or two
and sometimes walking beside Sam, was struck by the stark
intensity of the wagonmaster's mood. Never had the
physician seen such total concentration. If a
second set of moccasin prints had been made,
Sam would find them. If a bent blade of grass,
a crushed weed or a broken twig indicated that
anyone had used this trail recently, Sam would know
it.
Dr. Martin shared Sam's indignation, but at the
same time he couldn't help feeling sorry for the
culprit. Sam Brentwood was a gentle,
mild-mannered man, but it was evident that he yearned
for ven-
geance and would show no mercy when he located
the perpetrator.
Henry St. Clair was satisfied with the success he
was enjoying so far. He watched the wagon train from the
top of the bluff, saw it begin the morning journey and
then halt. That was all he needed to see before riding
off for the better part of two miles, turning away from
the river to rejoin the band of deserters who were waiting
for him.
Tall Oak had almost muffed his assignment,
completing only a portion of the task he'd been
given, but Henry had to be satisfied with the
results. Instead of pouring the sand and salt
mixture onto all of the wagon wheels, the Kiowa
had managed to endanger only a third of the
vehicles before laziness or fear of discovery had
caused him to abandon the job. But at least he had
halted the train, and that was what mattered.
Then, instead of returning to the rendezvous deep in the
forest, which he could have reached by dawn, Tall Oak had
wandered off somewhere by himself. Perhaps it had been a
mistake to give him a flask of whiskey to take
with him, but the Kiowa had flatly refused to undertake
the assignment without it. So it was likely that he'd
consumed the liquor and was either drunk or asleep.
Well, Henry couldn't worry about him.
If he failed to show up again it would be too bad, but
the British agent was damned if he'd accept
full responsibility for a drunken Indian.
There was only one problem: if apprehended, Tall
Oak might be inclined to talk. But there wasn't much
he could tell the authorities. He had heard
others men
tion his employer's name, but he probably wouldn't
be able to recall that it was Henry St. Clair who
had hired him. As for the deserters, their identities
were vague, so it was uncertain that he could provide
any specific information about them. Even if he could,
Henry refused to worry about that detail. Once the
deserters had served the'ir purpose, he wanted
nothing more to do with them.
After riding an hour and a half, he reached the clearing
deep in the forest where the deserters were waiting for him,
and quickly brought them up to date. "The wagon train
has been halted," he said. "The Indian did that
much. As I left, they were organizing a search
party, which means their best and most able men will be
tramping through the woods. We'll have to avoid them, of
course, but that shouldn't be too difficult."
"Where arc the wagons with all the loot?" the Lynx
demanded.
"The wagon with the gold hidden under false flooring
stood third in the line of mareh. It's one of the few
that's painted white, so you can't miss it. As for the
special wagon, it stands out, too. It's as large
as any two of the others put together."
"There's one thing we ain't talked about," the giant
said. "Me and the boys are wondering how big a share
you want for yourself."
"None of it," Henry declared. "Keep the gold, and
divide the supplies in the special wagon any
way you please-along with any other booty you
collect."
The military fugitives realized he had his own
reasons for wanting to disrupt and destroy the wagon
train, but they weren't really interested. It was enough for
them that whatever they seized would belong solely to them.
"The side of the bluff is very steep," Henry said.
"That means you'll open, your attack from the heights,
holding your position there until you've silenced
a8j opposition you may encounter. Once you start
down that slope you won't be able to stop, so you'll have
to conduct a full-scale cavalry charge that'll
take you right into the midst of the wagons. Then you'll be
on your own."
The Lynx stared hard at him. "You ain't
going to join in the battle yourself?"
Henry shook his head. "I can't. They know me, and
I don't want any of the survivors to be able
to identify me. Since it will be physically
impossible for you to ride up that bluff again, we'll
arrange-right now-for a place to meet after you've
carried off your attack."
"Maybe it's more dangerous than you're letting on.
Maybe that's why you don't want to get into the
fight."
"I've just told you my reason," Henry said
testily. "I'll join you a mile or two down the
river, just off the road, before the beginning of the bluff.
Where the land is still fairly flat."
"You better be telling us the truth," the Lynx said.
"I am. I have nothing to gain by lying to you," Henry
said earnestly. "The wagonmaster is a crack
shot, as I've already told you, and we've got
to assume that some of the others are, too. But they're
neutralized because by now they're already conducting a
search for the-man who put sand into their wheels. They should
be miles from the wagon train when you open
your assault. The whole attack shouldn't last more
than a few minutes, and you'll be far away by the time
the wagonmaster and the others return. As
nearly as I can estimate, the plan is
foolproof."
"It better be," one deserter declared.
"There's only one thing left to be settled. When do
you pay us the cash you promised us?" The Lynx
peered suspiciously at the man who had hired them.
These wretches were totally lacking in gratitude,
Henry St. Clair thought. He had obtained
civilian attire for them, bought firearms for them and
provided them with horses. But they still weren't
satisfied. "I promised you payment when the job of
wrecking the wagon train is done," he said.
"The rules have changed," the Lynx told him.
"We want to be paid now, or there won't be any
attack, and to hell with you."
"How do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain if
I pay you in advance?" Henry demanded.
The giant's harsh, booming laugh echoed through the
forest. "We want the gold that's hidden in that
farmer's wagon, and we want all the good things that
are stored in the special wagon. That's why,
mister. Once we have everything we need, we're
breaking up. Some of us will go to Texas, and the rest will
go where they please. So you'll do this our way. Give
us the cash right now, or forget you ever ran
into us."
In spite of his reluctance, Henry had
anticipated this demand and was prepared to meet it.
Unwilling to let the adventurers know of the existence of
his money belt, he had already transferred the wages
due them to another pocket. He removed a roll
of ten-dollar bills,
handed two to each and three to the Lynx, thereby insuring
the leader's support, at least for the moment.
The potential mutiny was quelled, and with Henry
riding at the head of the column, the men made their
way to the bluff overlooking the Missouri River.
Soon the unsuspecting members of the wagon train
would be subjected to a colossal assault that,
Henry was convinced, could not fail.
The long trek on foot through the Missouri forest
seemed to be producing no results. Leaves were
turning red and gold in the crisp autumn air, and
there was already a thickening carpet underfoot. As they
fell, drifting down silently, the leaves made it
increasingly difficult in some places to find any
tracks that the fleeing Indian saboteur might have
left on the trail.
But Sam Brentwood showed no signs of
discouragement or fatigue, even though the
men strung out behind him on the path were beginning to be
disheartened. He continued to press forward, his limp more
pronounced than ever, his face set, his eyes
unyielding.
Quincy apparently realized that this was no ordinary
outing. Undistracted by the presence of squirrels,
rabbits and other small animals nearby, Quincy
stayed close behind Sam, his ears raised, his body
tense. He seemed to sense that his friend was relying on
him for help that mere men couldn't provide.
Occasionally he moved ahead a few paces, then
waited for the wagon- master to catch up, but not once
did he stray from the path.
Robert Martin was tempted to suggest that the search be
abandoned. The attempt to cause permanent dam
age to the wagon train had failed, and he thought it
might be wiser to push on to Independence. He saw
little to be gained for the effort and time involved.
But when Quincy halted, sniffed the ground
repeatedly and uttered a low, deep growl, a slow
chill moved up the physician's spine and he
knew that he was mistaken.
Sam remained remarkably calm. "Well,
boy," he said, "you've found something. Show me."
Quincy continued to smell the spot, his
growls more distinct. All at once he left the
trail and moved swiftly but quietly through stands of
oak and linden and elm. Ahead stood a tangle of
silver birch, saplings and mature trees so
close together that it appeared as if no man could force
his way through the maze.
Sensing that Sam couldn't follow him, the dog found a
way around the birches to an area where hickory
trees were growing in profusion. Sam raised a finger
to his lips in warning. The men had not been talking,
but they walked more carefully to make as little noise as
possible.
Then Quincy broke into a run, and Sam had
to sprint in order to keep the dog within sight. For a
while the dog disappeared, and then Sam saw him again,
his teeth bared as he stood over something on the ground.
Sprawled beneath the overlapping branches of two
hickory trees was a Kiowa brave, sound
asleep. As Sam drew closer he smelled the
stench of liquor on the Indian's breath.
Using three pistols, Sam fired three shots
into the air in rapid succession. If Stalking
Horse was within earshot, it wouldn't take him long
to reach the spot.
"Steady, Quincy," Sam said, restraining
the dog from attacking the Kiowa. The sleeping man
didn't stir. With other members of the party gathering
around him, Sam bent down and removed the knife from
the Indian's belt.
Then something struck a familiar chord. All at
once Sam recognized the Indian. This was the
Kiowa who'd made such a nuisance of himself on the
St. Louis pier, the brave who'd been pawing
Cindy before Sam booted him into the Mississippi.
So it was possible that the Indian had been acting on
his own initiative, although Sam doubted that he had enough
intelligence. In any event, the evidence was
incriminating: there were smears of axle grease on his
hands and his buckskin loincloth.
Sam nudged him with a foot, but the Kiowa didn't
stir.
Dr. Martin knelt beside him, his nose wrinkling in
disgust. "This man is dead-drunk," he said. "He
couldn't have left the river in this condition because he
couldn't have come this far. He's obviously been
drinking on the trail."
They spent the better part of a half-hour trying
to awaken Tall Oak, but he didn't open his
eyes.
Ultimately Stalking Horse and Ernie
von Thalman arrived with the rest of the search party. The
Cherokee took hi the situation at a glance,
dropped to one knee and drove the point of his
bone-handled knife under the sleeping Kiowa's dirty
thumbnail.
The pain awakened Tall Oak with a start.
Sam bent close to him on the other side as
Stalking Horse continued to exert pressure with his
knife.
"Who paid the brave to throw sand on the comwheels oi the
wagons"!" he asked in the language oi the
Kiowa.
Tall Oak shuddered, but made no reply. Sam
had no intention oi wasting mote time than was necessary.
Drawing his own knife, he held the blade close
to the warrior's throat. "Speak!" he commanded.
Tall Oak blinked as he tried to focus, and his
eyes watered. The whiskey he had consumed still made
him dizzy, but he was sober enough to recognize the stern
wagonmaster and the Cherokee. The presence of the other
men in the circle around him, too, convinced him that his
life was in danger. He opened his parched lips, but
was so frightened he couldn't utter a sound.
"The heart of the coward will be cut out of his body and fed
to the wild boars of the forest," Sam said,
pressing the blade closer to the Kiowa's throat.
In his terror Tall Oak panicked, and tried
to push away the knife that had already drawn blood from
his throat.
Quincy thought the Indian was trying to attack his friend,
and a hundred pounds of canine fury were unleashed.
Before anyone could halt the dog he launched an
assault of his own.
By the time Sam was able to haul Quincy off and quiet
him, Tall Oak was bleeding freely from several
deep bites. The Kiowa appeared to have lost
consciousness again.
Dr. Martin moved Sam and Stalking Horse
aside, then quickly conducted another examination. "This
man was in a weakened condition due to alcohol," he
said at last, "and the fright he suffered from Quincy's

bites was too much for him. He's about 1 again, and
there's nothinglcan do to him."
Sam dropped to the ground and paced his close to the
Kiowa's ear. "Why did you put sand on the
wheels?" he asked harshly, with no hint
at
compassion in his voice.
Tall Oak could only whisper, as though
lie Was strangling. "Man pay. Give whiskey,
too."
"What man?"
The Kiowa was no longer able to reply. He gasped
for breath, made an effort to sit up and then fell
back onto the ground.
Dr. Martin took his pulse, then shook his head.
Tall Oak's sightless eyes stared vacantly at
the tops of the hickory trees. The secret of the
identity of the man who had paid
him
to sabotage the wagon train had died with him.
Some members of the party were stunned by the scene they had
witnessed, but Sam felt no pity for the dead Kiowa,
and neither did Stalking Horse. Their one regret was
that he had died before telling them what he knew.
The men carried no spades or other tools to dig
a grave for the brave, and Sam knew of no reason
to bring his body back to the campsite. The best he
could manage was a final resting place of sorts beneath
the trunk of a huge, fallen maple. The task was
accomplished with dispatch, and the abortive mission
appeared to be at an end.
Suddenly, the men were electrified by the crackle of
rifle fire in the distance. In an instant,
Sam knew the
reason behind the Indian's seemingly senseless act of
sabotage. A clever scheme was being unfolded. The
wagon train, unable to move, was being subjected
to heavy attack by armed men while the company's best
sharpshooters were several miles from the scene.
"We've got to get back-fast!" Sam shouted.
His limp forgotten, he ran toward the river. He
prayed they would reach the camp in time.
Earlier it had become obvious that the wagon train
would lose the entire day and not be able to advance until
the following morning, no matter how hard Ted
Woods and his crew worked. So kindling and wood were
gathered near the base of the bluff, and another fire
was made near the ashes of the last one.
The water detail was at last able to take care of
Ted's needs, andwiththe wheels being cleaned one by one,
and the axles greased, Claudia was able to rest for a
time. Cathy and Otto were engaging in another of their
incessant quarrels nearby, so she avoided them.
Instead she headed toward Tonie Mell, who was
sitting alone on the steps of her wagon, looking
forlorn. Now that Sam had made his personal
feelings clear, Claudia no longer disliked the
girl, and found herself even sympathetic
to someone who looked that woebegone. .,
As Claudia approached, they heard a sharp,
crack389
ing sound that resembled a tree branch breaking, and
saw a small puff of dust a short distance away.
Tonie was on her feet immediately. "My God,
we're under fire!" she screamed.
Another rifle shot sounded, then another, and soon
a fusillade descended on the campsite.
The place became a bedlam. Work horses and oxen
roamed inside the circle nervously, women
hurried to their wagons, dragging children with them, and many
of the men were so bewildered they didn't know what to do.
Tonie Mell was the first to be practical. She
dashed into her wagon for her rifle, then scurried for
cover behind the inner rim of "the circle. Ted
Woods followed her example, and within moments a
number of other men did the same, Otto van
Ayl among them.
Claudia, recovered from her astonishment, looked
at Terence and Lena Malcolm, who were standing at the
rear of their wagon, staring up at the bluff, where
volley after volley of concerted rifle fire was
erupting. "Terry," she said, "I'm a better
shot than you are, so lend me your rifle.
Quickly."
He brought it to her, along with a pouch of bullets and a
bag of powder. Emulating the men, Claudia
crouched low and ran a zigzag pattern until she
reached the inside edge of the circle, where there was greater
protection from the rifle fire on the heights. She
saw Tonie crouching near the narrow opening between two
wagons, and instinctively joined her.
"Judging from the volleys," a tight-lipped
Tonie said, "there have to be twenty to thirty men up
yonder."
"Indians?"
Tonie shook her head. "No tribe has that many
guns. Bandits, maybe."
Could ordinary bandits be launching a concerted attack
so soon after the train had been incapacitated? It
was too great a coincidence. Claudia thought of
Henry St. Clair, wondering if he might be
responsible, but there was no time now to dwell on such
matters. She was too frightened, too angry.
When she saw some of the men firing indiscriminately
at the heights, Tonie was appalled. "Hold your
fire till you can actually see your target, you
idiots!" she shouted. "They've got to move
close to the rim of the bluff before they can
look down at us!"
Even as she spoke an attacker drew close to the
edge of the bluff. Tonie steadied her rifle,
took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
Apparently her shot was a near miss because the man
quickly drew back.
Thanks to Tonie's coaching, Claudia knew now
what had to be done. She leaned against the axle of the
wagon and waited. She had learned to shoot because she
had been challenged, and now there would be a need for all
the patience Sam had displayed, for the long hours
she'd spent alone in target practice.
Soon another rider appeared, and raised his
rifle. But Claudia reacted faster than he
did. Swinging her borrowed rifle to her shoulder she
caught her breath as she peered at her target through the
sights, then squeezed the trigger, remembering
to hold the butt firmly against her body so the
kickback wouldn't knock her down.
The man on the heights clutched his chest, dropping
his rifle, then tumbled to the ground only inches from the
edge of the cliff.
Claudia had drawn first blood, and she lost her
sense of fear.
"Good shot," Tonie said, a ring in her
voice.
Claudia's success heartened the men., and a number
of them, including Nat Drummond and Ted
Woods, became more selective in their fire. These
were men who had occasionally hunted ducks, wild
turkeys and perhaps deer in order to put meat on their
tables, but Done were expert marksmen. None had ever
engaged in armed combat with other men.
But they had the good sense to exercise patience.
Strung out along the line of wagons, they waited
until they could actually see their foes on the
bluff before shooting. Even though most missed
repeatedly, they forced their enemies to exercise greater
care.
A few pioneers refused to learn, however, and the
worst was Otto van Ayl. Wishing he'd been
sensible enough to buy a farm in Illinois, he was
determined that no bandit would steal the gold hidden beneath
the floorboards of his wagon. In a fury, he
fired indiscriminately at the bluff, reloaded
and fired again, then yet again.
The flashes from the same spot beside Otto's wagon
attracted the attention of several Army deserters,
who already recognized his white wagon as one of their
prime targets. Three appeared
simultaneously, firing at the same instant.
Otto van Ayl fell back onto the ground, his
old-fashioned musket dropping beside him.
Claudia knew at once that he was dead and felt
heartsick. But she couldn't allow herself to think of
Otto comor of the suddenly widowed Cathy. "Those men
up there know how to shoot," she said, between clenched
teeth.
"They're marksmen, all right You and I had best
move around and never fire more than once from the same
spot It's too easy to make ourselves attractive
targets."
They moved to the other end of the wagon they were using as a
shield, and fired together when an attacker showed himself
on the bluff. The man crumpled, fell to the ground
and then rolled down the bluff, where his body lay at
the bottom. Neither girl ever knew which of their shots
had killed him.
Gradually it began to dawn on the pioneers that their
best available shots were Tonic Mell and
Claudia Humphries. It was the two young women
who were holding the attackers at bay. They needed
help badly, however, and the first to realize it was Ted
Woods, who had yet to hit his target
Casting aside his masculine pride, he
acted accordingly. "Danny! Chet Harris!" he
shouted to the boys who were grouped at the rivet side
of the circle with the women and younger children. "Join me up
here, but don't go into the open. Come round the circle
and use the wagons
as
cover so those bastards up yonder don't take aim
on you."
The two boys followed his instructions, and soon
reached Us side.
"I want each of you to get a rifle, ammunition
and powder from somebody who isn't having much luck.
Then join Tonie and Claudia as feeders."
In a short time his tactics proved their worth. As
soon as Tonie and Claudia fired, they were handed
loaded rifles by Danny and Chet, who promptly
reloaded the discharged weapons. Thus the girls were
able to fire more rapidly, getting off as many as three
or four rounds before return enemy fire made it
necessary for them and their loaders to scurry to safety behind
another wagon.
The men on the top of the cliff were discovering that their
assault was far more difficult and dangerous than
Henry St. Clair had pictured it. The moment a
deserter appeared from behind the trees that
screened him, he became a target for the sharpshooters
below.
Tonie nicked a horse, and the frightened animal
reared, throwing its rider. Then Claudia, narrowly
missing her target twice, forced one of the bolder men
to draw back.
There was a brief respite, and Tonie, continuing
to watch the crest of the bluff, wiped perspiration from
her forehead. "So far we're holding our own.
We're a good team."
Claudia felt as though she were dreaming.
Necessity had transformed her from a soft,
civilized lady into a primary defender of the entire
wagon train. She had learned to shoot only because
she hadn't wanted to be outdone by a member of her
own sex, and now the entire company's safety
depended on their efforts.
"Even though we've been moving around," she said, "it
ought to be plain to the bandits up there that only a
couple of us can shoot. If they're smart they'll
concentrate on us."
"Then well have to be smarter and keep changing our
positions," Tonie said. "We'll start moving up
and down the line every time we fire a couple of quick
rounds."
The idea made sense, and Claudia agreed, but
remained fearful. "We can't hang on forever. There
seem to be a lot of them up there."
"Sam and Dr. Martin and the others can't be that far
off. By now they're sure to have heard the ruckus,"
Tonie said. "So it shouldn't be too long before we
get
help."
The deserters adopted a new approach
to neutralize the sharpshooters, though it involved a
high risk. A dozen attackers appeared
simultaneously, strung out along the rim of the
bluff, and simultaneously fired a volley before
ducking back out of sight.
This gave the defenders only a few seconds
to aim and fire, so the odds favored the attackers,
who adopted the principle being utilized by Tonie
and Claudia, never appearing twice in exactly the
same place.
A hail of bullets riddled the wagon train. A
work horse was wounded, and had to be put out of its
misery by Ted Woods. Then one of the oxen was struck
by several bullets and dropped dead.
Again the men on the bluff retreated, then advanced
again and fired a fusillade. This time the
girls were better prepared. Tonic's bullet
grazed the face of one attacker, forcing him to turn
away swiftly, and Claudia's shot struck the
rifle of another, knocking it to the ground, making it
impossible for him to retrieve it as he pulled
back.
At almost the same instant a woman inside the
circle screamed, then began to sob hysterically.
"That
sounds
like
Ma," Chet Harris said nervously, but stayed at
his post, reloading the rifle Claudia had just
fired.
Word passed quickly around the circle, and Claudia
heard the news from the man stationed behind the adjoining
wagon. "Chet," she said softly, wishing she could
cushion the blow, but realizing she had to be blunt,
"that last volley hit your little brother."
"Billy?"
She nodded.
"Is he-was
"Yes," she murmured.
Tears ran down Chefs face, but he remained at
his post. For the moment, others could console his
mother; he had a vital task to perform.
Claudia couldn't find it in her heart to grieve for
Otto van Ayl, who had compelled her to make this
long journey and who had made Cathy's life
miserable for years. His death was unfortunate, but at
least he had lived a long time. But the killing of a
six-year- old child who was incapable of harming anyone
was wanton murder, and a cold rage possessed
her.
Instead of moving on to the next wagon for cover she
held her position and stood with her feet planted
apart.
Once again the attackers moved in unison to the lip
of the ledge. Claudia instantly raised her
rifle, took aim and fired. Even before the man on
horseback fell to the ground, she snatched her
second rifle from Chet and fired a second shot
at another man, unmindful
of the bullets that sang past her or bit into the dust
around her. Her aim was slightly less than
perfect, but she managed to wound the attacker in the
shoulder.
"Move on!" Tonie called urgently.
"They've spotted our position!"
Claudia crouched low and followed Tonie
to a place of cover several wagons farther down the
line. Chet stayed close behind her.
"Those two," Claudia told him, "were for
Billy."
He nodded, his own face grim
as
he handed her a loaded rifle.
When the opportunity came to fire again Claudia
was overly anxious, and missed with both shots. She
had to calm herself, she knew, but it was difficult when
the enemy were taking such a toll. A farmer had been
killed, and one of the women was wounded; the needless
slaughter infuriated Claudia, and her body was
shaking.
Tonie was better able to tolerate the situation because
she had helped her uncle repulse attacks on
his ranch. But she knew the men on the cliff would not
be content to repeat their present tactics endlessly.
They were suffering casualties, too, thanks to her
shooting and Claudia's, but so far they hadn't
yielded. Her experience was limited to assaults
on the ranch house by outlaw bands of robbers, and she
had no idea what the men on the cliff might try
next She didn't know how many there were, but it was
obvious that these bandits had considerable
strength. Judging from the way they shot volley after
volley, they had no lack of ammunition or
gunpowder, either.
Tonie told Claudia her fears, speaking
succintly.
The
knowledge that
the
danger could increase steadied Claudia. "We'll
just have to do our best," she said. Twice more, shots were
exchanged, and another farmer was wounded. Neither girl
was successful in hitting a new target, but at least
they managed to drive their opponents away again.
There was a long, ominous lull.
"Danny," Tonie Mell said, "pass the word
down the line. I don't know what's going to happen
next, but they're going all-out against us. I can feel
it."
The silence, broken only by the whimpering of a small
child, became oppressive. One of the horses
neighed, then all was quiet. The defenders stood
behind the wagons in the front semi-circle facing the
cliff, nervously bracing themselves for the next
attack.
Then it happened. Ten of the deserters,
riding with the reckless skill of the cavalrymen they had
been, rode forward hi unison, spread out in a thin
line, their horses plunging down from the heights.
Claudia fired at a rapidly moving target,
missed and snatched her other rifle from Chet, who
began to reload the first. Again Claudia missed,
realizing with dismay that Tonie was doing no better.
The horsemen, holding their fire, loomed larger as
they charged down the steep slope. Others appeared
behind them on the edge of the bluff, and opened a brisk
fire ta cover their comrades.
Claudia began to give up hope. There was no
way the attackers' new tactics could fail.
Even if a few of the riders were killed or wounded,
the momentum of the others would carry them into the midst of the

fenders as they rode through the openings between wagons.
Only superb horsemen endowed with great courage could
carry off such a feat
Chet handed Claudia another loaded rifle. For the
third time she missed her target. In despair,
she knew the end of the battle was near. Tonie
remained calm, but she, too, continued to miss, and the
farmers' shots were going wild.
Then, all at once the din of additional
fire was heard on the heights, and the riders who had
been sitting their mounts at the lip of the Muff began
to scatter.
One of the men galloping down the bluff was struck and
knocked from his saddle, but the momentum carried the
riderless horse down the slope. Then a second was
felled, and a third.
The survivors were losing their courage, but the bluff
was too steep to change the angle of their descent, and
they could only crouch low. A fourth was wounded, then a
fifth threw his hands high hi the air as he tumbled
from his saddle. His body rolled down the slope.
Their comrades, who had maintained a covering fire,
had vanished, and in their place stood a line of men
on foot.
Claudia didn't comprehend what was happening
until yet another descending rider was felled. As
he tumbled from his saddle, she was amazed to see an
arrow stuck in his back.
Then it dawned on her that the scouting party had
returned. She caught a glimpse of the
buckskin-clad Sam Brentwood, flanked
by Ernie von
Tbalman ami
Stalking Horse, who was sending arrow after
arrow down the cliff.
Not one of the attackers reached the wagons alive.
Several of their horses were killed, too, or were
injured.
When they reached the flat land below, the surviving
animals veered off in time to avoid colliding with the
wagons.
Danny then set an example by racing into the open.
Several of the others followed, and the surviving riderless
horses were rounded up.
Sam Breutwood led his parry down the slope.
Claudia moved into the open, not even realizing she was
still clutching a rifle. When "he saw she was alive
and unharmed, the relief in Sam's eyes spoke for
him. There was no need for words as he took her in his
arms. She clung to bun, returning his fervent
kiss, not caring if anyone saw them embrace.
The battle had come to an end.
"We disposed of most of them," Ernie von
Thalman said. "I regret that a few at the top
of the bluff escaped. Since we were on foot, we
couldn't follow them."
The bodies of the attackers were examined, but no
clues to their identities could be found.
"All I know for sure," Sam said
later, "is that this was no ordinary gang of bandits
committing robbery."
The beginning of rifle fire in the distance up the river
had sounded like a symphony, and Henry Still Clair
felt a sense of deep gratification. He sat
on his horse in the deep woods beside the bank of the
Mis

souri, listening to the gunfire. Occasionally he
glanced in the direction of the gentle slope that rose
toward the bluff. Perfect planning, combined with
luck, had made it possible to achieve a total
victory, even if the execution of his scheme left
something to be desired.
He had hoped that Tall Oak would be followed, but
it was sheer good fortune that so many men had gone out in the
search party. There was no way the weakened defenders
could ward off an assault by Army deserters
hungry for loot. Ultimately the raiders would be
traced and caught, of course. Without his skilled
help in covering their tracks, they would be found by the
authorities and hanged. And the sooner they were
apprehended the better he'd like it. Dead men could
tell no stories about the instigator of the plot against
the wagon train.
As soon as he knew for certain that the caravan had
been utterly demolished, he'd head for Canada,
make his way to Quebec as quickly as possible and
board the first ship sailing to England. Rather than send a
message, he'd carry the good news himself so there would
be no need for a delay in claiming the reward he'd
been promised. Certainly this mission would rank as
one of his greatest achievements. At negligible
expense to the Crown, he had delayed the
establishment of an American colony in the
Oregon country and won time for Great Britain
to set up a new chain of forts there. He knew of
no other case where a single agent, acting alone,
had won such a vast territory.
Tie rifle fire didn't die out. Instead it
became heavier, indicating that the members of the wagon
train were
putting up a spirited resistance. Somewhat
apprehensive, Henry told himself to stop worrying.
The deserters would let nothing stand between them and the gold
in Otto van Ayl's wagon or the booty in the
special wagon. Every rifle shot being filed meant
that greater havoc was being wrought.
Henry was tempted to leave now, without waiting to hear
a report from the Lynx. Having paid the
deserters what he'd promised them, he owed them
nothing and had no desire to see them turn on him,
which they were capable of doing. But his conscience wouldn't
permit him to go until the rifle fire died. That
way, he could supply a fact-hungry London
with the final, gory details.
Before starting his new position, Henry decided he'd
take a holiday-and spend every moment of it in
London. He felt no urge to fish on the
Cornwall coast or hunt in Scotland. In
fact, this long sojourn in rural America had
ruined whatever yearning for the outdoors he'd ever had.
Once he reached the city he loved, he'd stay there
for years, not even going to the country for weekends.
After traveling almost half the distance across the North
American continent, andwiththe Journey to Quebec still
ahead, he'd had his fill of trees, grass and
primitive living.
The tempo of rifle fire increased. A wave of
nervousness washed over Henry. He listened more
intently. He was relieved when he heard the
concentrated boom of volleys fired in unison.
Only men with military training could fire together with
such precision, a feat that the simple farmers and
artisans of the wagon train
were incapable of. So the operation must be in its final
stages.
Chuckling, Henry again felt the
urge to leave the area without delay. H, he did,
however, he'd never know how many people in the caravan had
been killed and wounded, how many wagons had been
destroyed and how many looted. The Prime Minister
would want specific facts to include in his
report to Queen Victoria. Men had been
knighted, Henry reflected, for successes less
solid than the victory he was winning.
A few last, ragged bursts of rifle fire
sounded, and then all was quiet A cricket chirped
in the woods. Henry could hear the faint roar of
rapids down the river. Sir Henry SL
Clair. The name had a pleasant ring.
A single horseman was approaching through the forest, but
Henry was not surprised. Most of the deserters, he
assumed, were gathering as much loot as they could before
scattering, and that was all to the good. The more they stole,
the more difficult it would be for the Americans to resume
their trip to Oregon.
The Lynx came in view, his rifle resting on his
pommel. His savage scowl was not the expression one
might expect to see on the face of a
conqueror. His shirt was soaked with sweat, which dripped
from his beard, too, and there were bramble scratches on
the backs of his hands.
Raising an arm in greeting but not yet speaking, the
Lynx rode closer. Then, even before he halted,
be picked up his rifle by the barrel, swinging it with
all of his prodigious might. The butt caught
Henry on the side of the head and toppled him to the
ground.
The surprise of the assault as well as its
violent intensity dazed St. Clair, and he lay
on the ground for a moment, trying to collect his wits.
Then he reached for the pistol in his belt
Before he could draw it, however, a huge hand dragged
him to his feet, and a fist crashed into his face.
Henry staggered backward into a tree, then tried again
to draw his pistol. But the Lynx was too quick for Mm
and battered
Mm
unmercifully with both fists.
Henry made an attempt to protect himself from the
hammer-like blows, but it was impossible to shield himself,
and there was no escape. His lower lip was bleeding, he
could no longer see out of one eye and he felt
certain his nose was broken. Then a crushing
blow landed in the pit of his stomach, driving the air from
his lungs. He doubled over, swayed and fell to the
ground.
But the Lynx was far from done. Methodically,
systematically, he kicked his victim, his boots
cracking against Henry's head, smashing into his
ribs, causing searing agony when they struck him in
the groin.
"Why ... are you doing .. . this?" Henry managed
to gasp.
The Lynx' harsh voice seemed to come from a great
distance. "You tricked us, you dirty son of a bitch.
Their sharpshooters held us off, and then they caught us
from behind. Most of my boys are dead. Only a few
got away. And yon did it to us, you bastard. I
don't know why, I don't care why. But yon
ain't going to do it again. Not to us, not to anybody."
Obviously the attack on the wagon train had
failed.
Henry wanted to explain that his plan had been
foolproof, that the deserters must have been at fault
in their execution. The deserters had been his
allies, not his enemies, and the Lynx was drawing the
wrong conclusions. Henry tried to speak, but couldn't
form the words he wanted to say. He could
only moan.
He was vaguely aware of the rifle butt poised
above him, and tried to move out of its path as it
descended. But his own movements were feeble, and it had
the weight of a demon behind it as it crashed into his
face.
The rifle butt descended again and again.
Henry's pain was so great that he could no longer think
clearly, but he realized that the Lynx was trying
to club him to death.
Then, though the blows continued to rain down on him, the
pain began to ease, and he knew he was losing
consciousness. No matter how severely this vicious
madman beat him, he would not die, and he was
grateful for the long years of physical conditioning, the
harsh service in the field in so many remote comers
of the world.
For reasons he didn't know, the attack on the
wagon train had failed. So he'd be obliged
to try again-and yet again-until he destroyed it.
Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the achievement of his
goal.
As he lost consciousness, he was actually smiling.
The Lynx struck him a few more rimes with the rifle
butt for good measure, mounted his horse and
picked up the reins of the Englishman's horse,
too. The deserter rode off, leaving a bleeding,
broken Henry St. Clair stretched out on the
ground, more dead than alive.
Volunteers prepared individual graves near the
bank of the Missouri River for the wagon-tiain
dead, along with a single mass grave for their unknown
assailants. Ted Woods, with the help of three
men, fashioned crude coffins.
One attacker's horse had to be shot, but six were
rounded up, more than compensating for the pioneers' loss
of three horses and an ox. Danny and several
other boys collected weapons on the bluff, and
these weapons, in good working order, were added to the
caravan's arsenal.
Dr. Martin attended the wounded. With the aid of
Claudia, struggling to overcome her exhaustion,
he removed a bullet from the wounded fanner.
Chet Harris and his brothers tried in vain to console
their mother for the loss of Billy. But Emily
Harris, who had always shown such strength in
adversity, couldn't stop weeping for the loss of her
youngest child. She sat on the back steps of her
wagon, a bandanna handkerchief pressed to her face
as she rocked back and forth.
When she felt a strong hand on her shoulder, she
looked up through her tears to see Baron Ernst von
Thalman standing beside her. Too sensitive to her
plight to offer his condolences in words, Ernie held out
a hand.
Emily took it, and felt herself being lifted to her
feet
Ernie led her out of the compound, beckoning the boys
to follow. They walked to the mossy bank of the river,
where a huge weeping willow stood. It had been
discarding whip-like branches in the cold autumn air,
and the ground was littered with them.
Ernie put a supporting arm around Emily's
shoulders, and together they looked at the moving waters
of the river.
It occurred to Emily Harris that this man, until
recently a total stranger, was grieving with her for
Billy not because of her loss, but because he himself had
formed a strong attachment to the child. The ability to share
grief steadied her, and the tears on her cheeks dried
in the wind that blew from the West. The memory of
Billy would accompany them on the long, hard
journey that still lay ahead.
Suddenly Emily became aware of her remaining
sons, who were pressing close to her. She
knew how they felt. Aware of their concern for her,
she forced a smile, strictly for their sakes. The
still-silent Ernie von Thalman continued to support
her, his solid, supple strength as firm as the
trunk of the willow tree.
At last Emily broke the spell. She kissed
each of her sons, then took Ernie's arm as they
made their way back to the campsite. Her grief
still burdened her, and she knew she would bear it the rest
of her days. But now it had eased a trifle because she
was sharing it with others.
Cindy came to Cathy van Ayl, as did Tonie
Mell, Grace Drummond and a number of other
women. But the dry-eyed Cathy made it plain that
she wanted to be alone for a time, so she, too, went
down to the river and sat on a boulder overlooking the
rain-swollen Missouri.
Otto was gone but she didn't miss him. She
told herself that repeatedly, astonished by her lack of
feeling. There was a void inside her, an emptiness
that wouldn't dissipate.
Logic told her it was impossible to feel deep
sorrow: she had never loved Otto. She had been
his dutiful daughter, his hard-working servant, but not his
wife. Ever since he'd botched his
lovemaking in the first days of their marriage, he had
never again approached her, and they had shared no
intimacies.
She had married him because her father had instructed her
to do so "for the sake of a secure future." Well,
she had that security now, and it meant nothing to her.
In one way or another-and she knew nothing about
finances-she would have to find a bank in Independence in
which to deposit the gold that lay beneath the false floor
of her wagon.
Yes, it was strictly her wagon now. She would
give Otto's clothes to any man in the company who
wanted them, and she'd distribute his other belongings,
too. Her mind whirling, she didn't yet know
whether to suggest to Claudia that they return to the
East. She had no reason to go back, but Otto-not
she-had wanted to settle in Oregon.
Poor Otto. He had never loved her, any more
than she had loved him; he had cared about nothing
except his money. For all-the good it did him now.
Cathy had to admit to herself that at times she had hated
him, but that hatred was gone now, replaced by a feeling
of pity for someone who had never known joy or shared the
warmth of a close relationship with any other per
Perhaps it was wrong to feel only pity, but
Cathy had to be honest with herself. She had lost a
stem guardian rather than a husband, but that knowledge didn't
make her feel guilty. In fact, she was free
for the first time in her life, having passed from her father's
care to Otto's, and the knowledge was frightening. It was a
challenge too, and she was determined to make her own
way, as Claudia was doing.
Still dry-eyed, Cathy walked slowly back to her
wagon. When she saw sympathy in the expressions
of others, she wanted to tell them not to feel sorry
for her. She wanted to explain that they could join her in
pitying Otto, if they wished, but that she wanted
nothing for herself except the chance to stand erect. After a
quarter of a century living under the thumbs of others,
she wanted an opportunity to guide her own
destiny.
She said nothing, to be sure, and she hurried to her
wagon to escape from those sympathetic, sorrowing
gazes.
Tonie Mell and Claudia Humphries were
universally acclaimed as the heroines of the day. Even
the monosyllabic Ted Woods became almost
eloquent as he Sang their praises.
"From the way I heard it," Sam told them,
"there'd be no wagon train left if it
hadn't been for you two."
Claudia, tired but giddy from the knowledge that she loved him
and he loved her, chose to be flippant, "I owe
my talents as a sharpshooter to my teacher," she said.
Tonie said nothing, but when she felt Robert
Martin looking at her and smiling, she flushed.
Damnation, she wanted to be appreciated as a
woman, particularly
by this one man, not for her talents as a marksman.
She turned away abruptly and stalked off.
"She becomes very shy when she's praised," Dr.
Martin said.
Claudia could have given him a more accurate
explanation, but didn't feel it was her place
to interfere. Besides, her whole being was-filled with her
own unexpected, new-found happiness.
"You and I have some things to settle," Sam said to her,
before going off to set up sentry posts for the night.
"But I reckon we'd best wait until I've
done my duty and taken these folks safely
to Independence."
The cooking fire was lighted at dusk, but the
preparation of supper was postponed until the dead were
buried. Night came, and at last the graves and
coffins were ready.
Men stepped forward to volunteer as pallbearers, and the
Harris brothers insisted on carrying Billy's
coffin, which looked very small. Sam and Dr. Martin
led the company to the river and bared their heads, and the other
men quickly followed their example.
The flames of the cooking fire leaped high,
illuminating the scene, as men, women and children
silently filed down to the bank of the Missouri. The
night was cold but clear, the sky was filled with stars
and a new moon began its slow rise into the heavens.
No one spoke, and the quiet was all-enveloping, with
no sounds heard other than the faint shuffling of feet
and the whisper of a breeze through the branches of trees
that even now were shedding their leaves. Somehow the silent
fall of those leaves to the ground
symbolized the solemn mood of the sad occasion. The
members of the company were mourning their departed. But they
realized that others would die, too, before the wagon
train reached the promised land of Oregon.
A woman's choking sob seemed to vibrate in the
stillness. Someone began to sing, and others joined in,
their voices as soft as the night:
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee;
Let the water and the blood
From thy side, a healing flood
r
Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power.
It was not accidental that voices were raised
spontaneously in the singing of this hymn. "Rock of
Ages" had been written in 1775, the year the
War of Independence had broken out. And for more than
sixty years Americans had regarded it as their
own. Sung in churches of every denomination throughout the
United States, it was more than a hymn; it had
become a reaffirmation of a people's faith in their own
future, in the future of the land of liberty.
By the time they reached the last verse, everyone, including
the families of the dead, sang loudly and clearly.
Some were weeping, others stood dry-eyed and humble as
their voices soared, carrying the time westward across the
forests and up the great river:
While I draw this fleeting breath, When mine
eyelids close in death,
When I rise to worlds unknown And behold thee on thy
throne, Rock of ages, cleft f01 me, Let
me hide myself in thee.
The silence that followed the singing of the hymn was
overpowering. The company had formed in a
circle around Dr. Martin, who held a worn
Bible in his hands. He opened it, and although it was too
dark for him to see the printed page, there was no need
for him to read. The Psalm was already engraved on his
heart, the memory of his late wife still fresh:
The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want He
maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my
soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his
name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art
with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou prepares! a table before me in the presence of
mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my
cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall
follow me all the days of my life; and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
The "Amen" spoken by the whole company was soft but
fervent. Then the coffins were lowered into the ground and
covered with dirt. A stone was placed at the head of
each grave, together with a slab of oak onto which the name
of the deceased had been burned.
The simple ceremony was ended. Silently, walking
singly and in family groups, members of the wagon
train went back to their campsite. There was
no sound but the quiet shuffling of feet and the whisper
of the wind as it blew through the bare branches of the
trees.
In the days that followed, it became clear that most
members of the wagon train intended to see the march through
to the end. They were bolstered by the rumor that scores of
other pilgrims awaited them in Independence,
planning to join the caravan there after making their way
to the jumping-ofl place. The company, Ernst von
Thalman firmly predicted, would be the largest ever
to make a concerted attack on the American
wilderness.
There were exceptions, to be sure, and the most prominent
of them was Sam Brentwood. He had agreed to lead
the train only as far as Independence. He had
further given his promise to Andrew Jackson
to establish a supply depot there to provide
service for the thousands of pioneers who were expected
to follow in the wake of the first wave. He fully
intended to keep that pledge.
Sam's plans for himself solved Claudia
Humphries'
problem. "He hasn't formally proposed to me, and
being the sort of shy person he is, it may be that he
never will," she said to Cathy. "But that
doesn't matter. All he's said is that we'll
talk after we reach Independence, but Fve already
decided what we're going to do. We'll be married
as soon as possible, and I'll help
Mm
set up the supply depot and run it with him. I
could never go back to a life of doing nothing, not after
coming all this way on the wagon train."
Cathy had smiled infrequently in the days since
Otto's death, but a mischievous expression
lightened her face, completely altering her
appearance. Only the black armband on one sleeve
would have told a stranger that she was a widow.
"Suppose Sam doesn't ask you to marry
turn?" she asked with mock innocence. "What then?"
"Why, I'd find a minister, make the arrangements
myself and tell Sam we had an appointment."
There was a tint of wistfulness in Cathy's eyes.
"I've known for a long time that you and Sam are right for
each other," she said, "but I sometimes wondered if
you'd ever realize it yourselves. I'm sure youTl have
a wonderful life together, although I'd hate to be
around when you both get stubborn at the same time."
Claudia laughed, obviously relishing the
prospect, and then sobered. "What will you
do, Cathy? I haven't wanted to talk about your
future too soon, which is why I've waited so
long."
"I wish I could make up my mind," the younger
girl replied. "I've thought of going back to Long
Island -"

"Why on earth would you do that? You always hated living
on that farm!"
"I know. So I've at least come to the conclusion that
I can't go running back home, because I don't have
a home there. Come to think of it, I never did."
"You could stay in Independence with Sam and me. I
know he'd be as pleased as I would to have you with us."
"You're sweet and kind, Claudia. But it
doesn't seem right to me that a couple just starting out in
married life should be burdened with a sister underfoot Not
that I'm rejecting your offer, mind you. On the
contrary, I may be forced to accept, like it or not.
And with Otto's gold, I could pay my own way.
It's possible, you see, that I'll have no real
choice."
"What do you mean?"
"It'll be a march of almost two thousand miles from
Independence to the Oregon country,"
Cathy said. "And after what we've seen already, I
hate to think of the hardships the wagon train will have
to face hi the unsettled wilderness. I'm not sure
I want to face them by myself. I'm trying to weigh every
possibility so I can make up my mind."
"Don't be in a rush," Claudia told her.
"Keep thinking. At the right time you'll know what
to do."
"I hope so." Cathy was troubled, but knew she had
to make her own decision.
The next evening, the next to the last they would spend
on the trail before reaching Independence, the company
faced the prospect of another defection. Tonie
Mell, hailed by Claudia and Sam, who urged
her to
join them at the campfire for supper, looked
unusually woebegone. Claudia and Sam were
surprised, but they refrained from commenting.
Tonie was conscious only of Robert Martin, who
sat a few feet away. She helped herself to a very
small portion of buffalo steak, but refused the
dumplings and hot bread that went with it.
Dr. Martin tried to put her in a better humor.
"I hope you're not dieting," he said. "If you
are, there won't be anything left of you."
Tonie remained glum. "I'm not hungry."
Claudia knew something was bothering her, and tried
to sympathize silently. Tonie turned to the young
woman with whom she'd formed an unbreakable bond of
friendship during the battle with the deserters. "I
guess I'm just feeling sad because-after tomorrow-I won't
be seeing you folks on the train any more."
"You've definitely decided to go back to your
uncle's ranch?" Claudia asked, instantly
sympathetic.
Tonie nodded. "I have no real choice. My
aunt hasn't been well the past couple of years,
and Fve got to relieve her of her
responsibilities around the house. My uncle
is getting on in years, and he needs my help on
the ranch. That's the way it will have to be."
"Well miss you," Robert Martin said quietly.
The girl gave no sign she had heard him. That was
preferable to disgracing herself by weeping.
"Well," Sam said, "at least Claudia and I
will be nearby, once we find us a place to live."
Males, Claudia thought, including the man she was
going to marry, were incredibly obtuse. It was
obvious that Tonie was upset because she wouldn't be
seeing
Dr. Martin comag, and the presence of friends in the
neighborhood could offer little consolation.
A heavy rain fell the next morning, slowing the
wagon train and destroying any hope of reaching
Independence that night. During the nooning the sun
came out, however, and a brisk wind off the plains
dried the road that ran parallel to the Missouri
River.
When they made their last camp, shortly before dusk,
Sam predicted they'd reach their destination late the
next morning. The entire company was well trained
for the journey that lay ahead, and he watched with
satisfaction as the wagons were formed into a circle,
the animals placed safely inside it to browse.
Claudia took charge of the water detail for the last
time, wood was gathered and, when the fire was started,
Cathy and her many helpers began to prepare the evening
meal.
These people, who knew what was expected of them, would form
a solid nucleus for the rest of the journey, no
matter how many newcomers joined them. They had been
hardened, too, by the tribulations they had already
endured, so now they were truly ready for the march through the
wilderness that lay ahead.
As Sam turned away, he saw Stalking
Horse race out of the compound, then lift his hand in
greeting as a lone rider approached. It was Whip
Holt, slouched in his saddle, looking
half-asleep, although he was actually prepared for
any emergency. Sam hurried forward to greet his
friend, too, his limp pronounced.
Whip returned the Indian's salute and jumped
to the ground. They grasped each other's forearms, a
gesture indicating to anyone familiar with Indian
customs that
they were blood brothers. "The sister of Stalking
Horse sends
him
her greetings," Whip said, addressing the Cherokee
in his own tongue:
Stalking Horse was delighted. "Whip has seen
her?"
"We spent the summer together in the mountains. She
has earned much gold from the beaver we trapped. I
wanted her to come with me, but you know how much she hates
the white man. She will stay with the Cheyenne for the
winter."
Stalking Horse nodded happily. There was no need
for him to comment. His sister and Whip, his close friend,
had lived together for three years, and he
regarded their relationship as natural.
Whip turned to Sam, and they shook hands. "I got
itchy waiting for you in Independence, so I came out
to meet you."
"I'm glad you did." Sam grinned at his
bronzed, lean colleague. "You look fit."
"I should be. You know what that mountain air does for a
man. How goes it?"
Sam quickly brought him up to date, stressing the
defection of Henry St. Clair, the attempts of
Imperial Russia to enlist the services of
Tonie Mell and the recent battle. "We can
talk more later, Whip," he concluded. "In the
next couple of days I'll tell you whatever you
want to hear about folks in the company. They're all
right."
"Well," Whip said as all three strolled toward
the compound, the young guide leading his horse, "you
don't look as though you've suffered much."
"I haven't," Sam said with a chuckle. "Matter
of
fact, I'll be needing you to stand up with me before you
pull out and head West."
"You're marrying Miz Humphries," Whip said
quietly.
"Who in hell told you?" Sam was astonished.
"Nobody," Whip said, and chuckled. "It was plain
as that big nose that spreads across your face. Right from
the minute the two of you started spitting at each other
in that Long Island kitchen."
Sam was still in a daze as he introduced the new
guide to Dr. Martin and Ernie von Thalman.
Whip chatted with them briefly, then went
oSo
to greet the few members of the party with whom he was
acquainted.
Cathy van Ayl stood over a huge iron
kettle, its contents simmering on a low fire.
She was using both hands to stir the stew with a large
wooden ladle and, flushed from the beat of the fire, she
was concentrating on her efforts. She felt, rather than
saw, someone staring at her, and glanced up to meet
Whip Holt's steady gaze.
She almost dropped the ladle into the kettle.
Removing his hat, Whip came to her immediately.
"Ma'am," he said, indicating the black band on
her arm, "I didn't know. I'm sorry."
"Thank you," she replied simply. It was wrong,
so soon after Otto's death, to be disturbed by the
proximity of another man.
"Was it during the battle below the bluff?"
Cathy nodded. She couldn't pretend to be grieving
for a man she had never loved, but it would be unbledba
were'
seemly to explain to this stranger that she felt sorry
for Otto.
"I reckon," Whip said quietly, "that Til have
to keep watch over you myself when we cross the
plains."
Before Cathy could reply he turned away
abruptly and was gone. She felt shaken, and finally
came to the conclusion that what disturbed her was his calm
assumption that she intended to make the rest of the march
with the wagon train.
Tonie Mell didn't want to prolong the agony
of leave-taking, so she said good-bye to the company
immediately after breakfast. Now that she was this close
to home, she said, she could make better time by going
on alone.
She and Claudia hugged each other affectionately,
and Sam insisted on kissing her.
"This is no good-bye," Claudia said. "We're
going to expect you at our wedding."
The teen-aged boys, led by Danny and Chet,
followed Tonie as she went from wagon
to wagon. Afraid she would make a spectacle of
herself, she limited her farewells to a few, curt
words, but she was nevertheless upset when she finally came
to Robert Martin's wagon.
"I wish you the very best of everything good, and Fm sure
you'll have it," he told her, taking her hand.
"You're a very special person."
Tonie was unable to reply. Wrenching away from him.
she hurried off and climbed onto her wagon.
Danny handed her the reins of her horse and she
started
off alone, a small, slender figure in
buckskins who didn't dare to look back for fear
of losing her composure.
She drove her team rapidly over the familiar
terrain, taking shortcuts and making her way across
open country. Her mind was a blank, her senses were
numb. Refusing to let herself think, she hoped she'd
remain, in this anesthetized state of suspended
animation for a long time to come. It was her tragedy that
she had fallen in love for the first time in her life,
andwitha man who didn't know she existed as a woman,
a man she would never see again. But that was her
situation, and she was forced to accept it.
Her route took her to within a short distance
of Independence, and when she reached the top of a little
hill she paused to look down at the community. She
had left in the autumn and was returning in the
autumn. Its growth in the year she had been absent
amazed her: it had been a small, sprawling
village when she had left, and now it was a real
town.
The spires of the two tallest buildings, the
Presbyterian and Methodist churches, dominated
either end of the maul street The post office had been
enlarged, there was a new store that sold hardware and
harnesses, a dry-goods shop and a food emporium,
a sign suspended above its entrance proclaiming that
it specialized in smoked and pickled meats,
sugar, flour and cooked vegetables preserved in
jars. The old general store was still hi its former
location, and next to it was what had

been the only saloon in Independence. Now there was
another, directly across the street, and
on its second floor an oil lamp with a bright red
shade was burning in front of a window, even in
broad daylight
The really surprising thing about the growth of the town was the
proliferation of new homes. There must, she
decided, be at least a hundred of them, neat, one-
story clapboard buildings, all of them whitewashed
and each with its own small yard and vegetable garden.
Looking at an old barn that had stood alone hi a
field, a place where horses could be bought and
sold, Tonic saw that it was now surrounded by new
houses. She scarcely recognized Independence.
Beyond the last row of houses was a field in which a
number of covered wagons were scattered, their oxen and
work horses meandering over a wide area as they
foraged. Tonie realized at once that the people in these
wagons were awaiting the arrival of the train in order
to join it She smiled a bit ruefully. These men and
women had a great deal to learn, and she wouldn't be on
hand to help them. Whip Holt would raise the devil
with them until they began to arrange their vehicles in
a tight, neat circle, keeping their animals
inside the enclosure. She herself had questioned the need for
these procedures, but experience had taught her their
value. There would be no survivors of the assault
on the bank of the Missouri if the caravan hadn't
been arranged hi a defensive position.
Tonie counted thirty wagons, then halted
abruptly before she completed the task. She was
torturing herself unnecessarily. The
inhabitants of those wagons would remain total
strangers to her. They would play no part in her
life, so it didn't matter whether there
were ten or fifty. She averted her gaze, then
started off again in the direction of her uncle's
ranch, which was only a short distance from what had
become a boom town.
Two hired hands were sitting their mounts in the south
pasture, keeping watch on the cattle there.
Obviously they had been employed since her
departure for Washington City, so she knew neither
one of them, but she raised a hand in greeting and they
returned the salute. From their subsequent conversation
with each other, it seemed likely that they had guessed
her identity. There weren't many young women in faded
buckskins in the area.
The ranch house and its outbuildings were unchanged,
perhaps a trifle smaller than they had become in
Tonie's memory during the past year. She
unhitched her team, then placed her work horses and
gelding in the stable before she did anything else.
Lifelong training had taught her that the care of
animals came first.
But she could unpack her belongings later, and she
broke into a run as she started toward the
house. The wonderful couple who had reared her had
truly become her parents. She had missed them
even more than she realized.
Arnold Mell, white-haired and spare, met his
niece in the covered passageway between the dining room
and the kitchen out-building. He was overjoyed to see
her. Tonie's cheeks were wet as they embraced.
"Thank God you're here," he said in his
Russian- accented English. "I knew from your
letters that you were traveling with the Oregon wagon train,
but I didn't know how to get word to you."
"What's wrong?" She had a premonition, and her
heart sank.
He put an arm around her shoulders as they walked
to the large bedroom at the side of the house.
"Sophie is ill, very ill. But she's clung
to life because she's wanted so badly to see you again before
she dies."
"What kind of illness-was
"We don't know. The only doctor in town left
six months ago. There's another in Saint Jo,
and I've written to
him
several times. He's promised to come, but so far
he's been too busy to leave his own
practice."
They opened the bedroom door quietly. Tonie was
shocked by Aunt Sophie's appearance. The robust
woman had lost so much weight that she was quite frail.
Her skin was waxen and her dark, red ban- had grown
as white as her husband's. Tonie could feel the
presence of death in the air.
Sophie Mell appeared to be sleeping, but she
opened her eyes, focused with difficulty and then
managed a tremulous smile when she recognized
the girl who bent down to kiss her tenderly. Then
she sighed and drifted back to sleep.
Tonie accompanied her uncle into the corridor
outside the sickroom. "There's a doctor in the
wagon train," Tonie said. "Ill get him, and
come right back."
Arnold Mell knew his wife was beyond medical
help, but he had no chance to tell Tonie not
to bother. She was gone before he could speak.
Tonie quickly saddled two horses. Leading one
while she rode the other, she headed at a canter
toward the field at the edge of Independence where the
newcomers' wagons had been parked.
When she reached the site the wagon train had just
arrived. The vehicles were being moved into the
usual circle and the place was a bedlam. People who
had said their farewells to Tonie only a few
hours earlier were delighted to see her, but she
didn't return their greetings. Instead she rode
straight to Robert Martin's wagon.
The physician had just finished unhitching his team, and
looked up in surprise at the girl, whose face was
tense.
"My aunt is very ill and there's no other doctor
in town-was
Waiting to hear no more, Dr. Martin ducked into his
wagon for his medical satchel, then mounted the spare
horse. Tonie led Mm back to the ranch at a
full gallop, making conversation impossible. When
they arrived he went straight into the sickroom,
while Tonie and her uncle waited in the parlor,
a seldom-used room cluttered with heavy
furniture. There the physician joined them a
half-hour later.
"May I be blunt?" he asked. "I'm afraid
there's no hope for Mrs. Mell. In fact,
there's been none since the beginning of this illness."
Arnold Mell nodded. The diagnosis confirmed
what he'd known all along.
Tonie averted her face. Robert
Martin placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't
blame yourself for not being here these past months," he said
gently. "There was literally nothing you could have done for
her."
She turned and looked up at
him,
gratitude and something more-a great deal more-in her
eyes.
So that's the way it is, Arnold Mell thought Never
before had Tonie been interested in any man, and he
told himself that something should be done about it.
Sophie Mell died later that same day, with her
husband and niece at her bedside. Her funeral was
held the following day at the Presbyterian Church
in Independence, and virtually everyone in the wagon
train was present. Arnold Mell, who had long
anticipated the tragedy, bore up well.
Tonie struggled hard to retain her composure, and was
sustained by Dr. Martin, who stood beside her when hei
aunt was buried in the town cemetery.
Forty-eight hours later, the same church was the
scene of a far happier occasion, the marriage of
Claudia Humphries and Sam Brentwood.
They were married by the church's pastor, with Cathy van
Ayl acting as her sister's matron of
honor and Whip Holt standing up with Sam. Again the
people of the wagon tram filled the church.
Tonie Mell insisted on holding a reception for the
bride and groom, saving that by giving the party for her
friends she'd be better able to put her sorrows out of
her mind for a time. The members of the wagon train
agreed, the women laying down the condition that they be
allowed to prepare the food that Tonie and her uncle
provided. A side of beef was barbecued hi a
pit behind the kitchen, and there were baked hams, fried
chicken and a variety of cold meats. The ladies
prepared mounds of potato salad, baked beans and
several types of hot bread, and everyone drank
hard cider made from local apples.
Claudia wore a dress of gray silk she had
made for
the occasion, and Sam looked uncomfortable in what he
called a "city suit" of dark worsted, worn with a
high collar and white neckband. Soon he
relaxed, however, because his bride kept a firm
grip on his arm, and he grinned broadly whenever he
looked at her.
Arnold Mell and his somber niece were part of a
small group gathered around the wedding party, as was
Dr. Martin, when Sam explained his
current problems. "I figured I could rent a
place to live and a warehouse in Independence without
any trouble," he said. "But the town is growing so
fast that nothing is available. It looks
like
we'll have to live in Claudia's wagon while I
build a storage depot for the supplies that are
already piling up behind the post office."
"Maybe I could interest you in this ranch," Arnold
Mell said. "You'd have all the space you'd need
here, and if you wanted, you could keep raising cattle
so you'd always have meat for the wagon trains."
Tonie looked at her uncle in astonishment.
"Are you putting this place up for sale?"
Claudia wanted to know.
"There are too many memories of my wife here, so
I'd prefer to get rid of it. If Tonie
doesnt mind."
"Whatever you say, Uncle Arnold." The girl
could not hide her continuing surprise. Her family
had been among the first to settle in the area, suffering
many hardships as they'd tamed the wilderness, and she
couldn't imagine Uncle Arnold living anywhere
else.
"If you're serious about this," Sam said,
"IV-EVERY been authorized by John Jacob Astor
and his partners to spend fifteen thousand dollars for a
depot."
"For that kind of money," Arnold Mell said, Til
throw in the livestock and most of the furniture.
It's a good deal for everybody."
"Especially for me." Sam looked at his bride
and squeezed her hand. "Til be happier running the
ranch, and Claudia can look after the supply
depot"
"A perfect arrangement," she said, knowing he'd be
far more contented working out of doors.
"Where will you and I go, Uncle Arnold?" the
bewildered Tonie asked.
Her uncle smiled. "If Whip here will take us,
well join the wagon train," he said. "Unless he
thinks I'm too old."
Whip Holt, who had known him for years, protested
vehemently. "You, Arnold? You may be in your
sixties, but I'd bet on you any time in a
free-for-all with men half your age. Besides, you've
forgotten more about how to deal with nature than most of the
greenhorns on the train will ever know. There's
nobody I'd rather have with us!"
"Then it's settled," Arnold said.
Tonie was so ecstatic she couldn't think straight
"So well have you with us after all, Tonie," Robert
Martin said. "That's a grand piece of news."
Tonie could only nod. She was afraid to look
at him for fear of revealing her innermost feelings.
Only Claudia understood the sacrifice Arnold
Mell was making. She was able to penetrate his
surface attitude and realized that, with his wife
gone, he was willing to start anew for Tome's
sake. Somehow, he had gleaned that Tonie had
fallen hopelessly hi love with Robert Martin, and
he wanted to give her the oppor-
tuntty to let the romance develop on the long
trail that lay ahead.
"This is working out fine for everybody," Sam said, and
turned to his new sister-in-law. "Now we'll have
plenty of room for you here, Cathy, for as long as
you'll want to stay with us."
"I don't intend to stay, Sam," Cathy said.
"Thanks all the same. I was waiting until after
the wedding to tell you and Claudia that I've decided
to go on to Oregon, too."
Whip reddened beneath his tan, and for an instant his gaze
met Cathy's. That moment was enough for her to realize that
the future was filled with promise.
In the twelve years that had passed since the first
trading post had been established at St.
Joseph, Missouri, less than sixty miles
northwest of Independence, the rapidly growing town
had grown accustomed to many strange sights. The
recent acquisition of land by purchase from the Kiowa,
Fox and Sac Indian nations had spurred
immigration, new farms were being established and the town
itself doubled its population every six months.
Rocky Mountain trappers mingled on the streets with
Indians in loincloths, painted women from the local
saloons and prim New Englanders. There were
carpenters and bricklayers from the Eastern Seaboard
whose jobs had vanished in the Panic of 1837,
new arrivals from the German principalities and
Scandinavia, who were just learning to speak English,
Missouri River boatmen and adventurers of many
stripes who were seeking a new life.
All stared in astonishment at the grim-faced man
who plodded slowly down the main street, putting one
foot in front of the other, wavering but somehow not
falling. His face had been smashed to a pulp, his
clothes were tattered and he clutched his side to ease
the pain of broken ribs. Even his boots were
battered, indicating that he had walked a
great distance.
Smears of dried blood still on his face, Henry
Still Clair made his way as far as the doorstep of the
town's only physician, then collapsed. A
thousand times he had been on the verge of giving up,
but an inner force had driven him on, and at last he
had reached his next destination.
His money belt was intact, the doctor would patch
him up and his bones would mend. Then he would resume
his mission. He hoped the worst was behind him, because one
way or another he had to destroy the American
wagon train that was bound for the Oregon territory.
The first half of the long march across the face of North
America had drawn to an end, and the weary
travelers who had spent months on the trail were
enjoying a temporary respite. They had reached the
last outpost of civilization in the United States.
Beyond it lay the Great Plains, stretching toward
infinity, the magnificent and terrifying Rocky
Mountains and, beyond the continental divide, still more chains
of mountain peaks to cross before they reached Oregon.
Here their dreams would come true, if they had the
strength, stamina and courage to survive.