A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9) Page 2

  “Ah, well. Good spot t’ grow up, Jordy. Sure do miss the place, and the people. So. Back t’ business.” Moving the map closer to the light, Cole used one finger to trace a line from Missouri up and across plains and mountains. “You plannin’ on takin’ the Oregon Trail west?”

  “Most logical one. Done me considerable research, Cole, gatherin’ information, makin’ lists, figurin’ out prices, and such. Purty safe by now, not so many dangers t’ contend with. Still, it’ll be a grand undertakin’, and a new start for a lotta people.” Excitement and enthusiasm shone on Butler’s wide easy-going face, colored his normally temperate tone.

  Thoughtful silence for a few moments. In an opposite corner of the spacious room, one man greeted another; in another someone struck a match to the finely fragrant tobacco leaves rolled into his Cuban cigar; from the doorway came a hustle of several newcomers entering, with raised voices and clomping boots.

  “Y’ know,” Cole mused, “I coulda taken a paddle wheel steamship instead, through Panama and up the coast t’ California. A whole lot more comfortable and a lot less aggravatin’.”

  “Ahuh.”

  “Toldja I also considered that new transcontinental railroad, just finished up and rarin’ t’ go. They’re advertisin’ a run out west as takin’ only a week and costin’ only $65.”

  “Ahuh.”

  “Still…” he slowly swirled the amber liquid in its glass, “…reckon you’re right about seein’ this trek as a grand undertakin’. Get t’ enjoy a lotta the country, that way. And things’re changin’ so fast, may as well take advantage while we can.”

  In his friend Jordan caught a glimpse of the same nostalgia he himself sometimes felt, for the passing of a way of life that could never be recalled, the wistfulness that only memories remained of their shared childhood in a world gone forever.

  “More willin’ t’ plant your backside in a saddle for a few months then, are you?”

  “Looks like I got no choice, since I already accepted the post. So. How many hardy souls you got signed up for this trip?”

  “We got us twenty-five wagons. Prob’ly some 70-80 folks altogether, includin’ kids. I’ll do a final head count once we get all set up ready t’ leave. Which should be in the next week or so. It’s early May now; I’m figurin’ about five months travel time.”

  A nod from Cole, who took a sip from his cognac snifter. “Sounds like you’ve done your homework, all right.”

  “Part of the job. When Cap’n Howard first approached me, I did some hard thinkin’ as t’ whether I even wanted t’ tackle this. Then I talked t’ some trail drivers who’d been across—and come back, t’ do it again. Got a lotta good advice.”

  “Oh, shucks, Jordy, you always did end up bein’ able t’ do whatever you set your mind on. You got my vote, son; I’d follow you t’ hell and back.”

  The beaming smile from across their table bolstered Jordan’s self-confidence. If he even needed it bolstered. His ego seemed to be doing just fine on its own.

  “Well, then.” He reached to his inside pocket for a handwritten list. “These are the supplies you’re gonna need, Cole. Got me a chuck wagon and a cook named Luther—one cantankerous ol’ son of a bitch—and I hired half a dozen fellahs on their own t’ help out with camp chores, ride shotgun, and such. We’ll have two separate wagons, b’sides, to haul all our personal belongin’s.”

  “Hawses?”

  “Yep. Lined up two or three for each of us. And a drover for ’em, and any other four-legged critters the homesteaders bring along. Y’ know—cattle, sheep, goats, camels…who knows what all?”

  Cole flashed his characteristic lopsided smile. “You headin’ up a wagon train or buildin’ yourself an ark, son?”

  A small sigh, full of responsibilities and possibilities. “Sometimes, Cole, I ain’t sure which.”

  II

  “There, Pa, I’ve rearranged things inside the wagon to make more room. You said we still need to buy some extra flour and corn meal?”

  “And rice, prob’ly more dried fruit, too, Janie. Accordin’ t’ that new list handed out by the wagon master, anyway.”

  Oliver McCain had taken a break from his labors and was lounging in the shade under one of Missouri’s spreading oaks. By now, in mid-May, the branches were almost fully leafed out, providing a resting place for weary travelers and nesting birds, alike. Along with anything else that might want to take shelter.

  At the sound of a rattling cough, his daughter sent him one of her patented sharp looks. No matter how much she tried to tempt his appetite with special meals and his favorite tidbits, he had lost a few more pounds just since their arrival here in camp. As much as she worried about his slow deterioration, he refused to heed her concerns, her warnings, or her advice.

  “Stubborn old Mick,” Janetta muttered, swishing her skirts as she climbed down from the wagon seat.

  “I heard that,” said her father. With his head leaned back against a pallet she had put together for his comfort, he didn’t bother even opening his eyes but merely smiled sweetly. “Whatever else may be goin’, Janie, girl, I still got my ears.”

  At that word, the large dog lying beside him, with his chin resting upon the man’s thigh, pricked up his own in anticipation. Food? Warning? Security? The indiscriminate mating of Barney’s collie mother with some anonymous suitor had produced this unusual animal of long brown and black fur, intelligent dark eyes, and a capacity for love and loyalty that surpassed those of many humans. If you wanted support in any sticky situation, Barney was the one to have your back.

  Since Janetta had just returned from the pump with a full pail, she was able to pour a cup of cold fresh water to relieve his dry throat. And stand over him while he drank it, every drop. “Better?”

  Oliver nodded, with a cheerful, if faint, “Shore ’nuff.” He was lying, of course; he knew it, and she knew it. But we tell these lies in the desperate hope of easing the burden a loved one bears.

  “We’re a fine pair of derelicts,” he murmured. “Me—with this…and you—with that…”

  Around the metal handle of the pail, Janetta’s fingers tightened, as did the muscles around her mouth. It was a lovely mouth, full-lipped and softly pink, prevalent, in better times, to good humor. Those better times hadn’t been hanging around much, lately. In fact, it was a wonder either of them found the willpower and the courage to even get out of bed every morning.

  “We’ll do fine,” she assured him, lying in her turn. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we? All on our own. It’ll be easier once we join up with the train, with everybody helping out everybody else.”

  Another cough. Not quite so strenuous, this time, or so debilitating. Still, it left his face damp with perspiration, along with an unhealthy flush that showed even through the gray-streaked beard. Quickly Janetta wrung out a cloth from the cool water and gently applied it to her father’s forehead.

  “You’ve been doing too much since we got here, Pa. Just sit quietly now, and rest.”

  “Uh-huh.” The brown eyes were closed again, as if to shut out the world. “You, too, honey. Them supplies’ll wait for buyin’ till later.”

  “Not if too many settlers make a run on the dry-goods store.” Despite her mild protest, Janetta sank down on a convenient stump, partly in obedience, partly in weariness, and, while her father and his companion dozed in tandem, thought back over events of the past few months.

  Through the centuries, in every country, there would always be those seeking to better their current circumstances, whether to rise out of sickening poverty, or provide a living for numerous children, or attain religious freedom in order to worship whom they wanted when they wanted, or even just to see what might lie on the other side of the mountain.

  The McCains belonged to none of those groups.

  No. In their case, it was expedience, pure and simple: the need to escape, the need to survive.

  And whether they would succeed was anybody’s guess.

  Remember
ing, Janetta slipped off her shoes, rested her bare feet on the rough cool bricks used as pavers, and leaned back against the schooner’s outer wall. The temperature, here beside the grand Mississippi, was warmer than she was used to, with humidity that curled her strawberry blonde hair into ringlets unless she kept it tightly bound. The difference between St. Louis and her beloved southern Illinois wooded hills was not so great; there was just a small matter of adapting. How much more adapting would need to be done, between here and the mystical land of northern California she had hardly dared even imagine?

  The notice that a wagon train was being assembled to trek westward, leaving from St. Louis in mid-to-late May, had appeared in their local newspaper at what seemed the most providential time.

  “Northern California,” repeated Oliver, reading from the advertisement. “Your ma’s people headed out there years ago, got settled in a place called Fremont, just outside San Francisco. We could look ’em up, Janie.”

  “But—leave everything behind?” Suddenly feeling a little frightened, as if the move were already accomplished fact, she had looked around the confines of their comfortable parlor, with all the furnishings and accessories so dear and so familiar.

  He had taken hold of her upper arms, holding her restless spirit still. “There ain’t much else for us here, honey. Not with everything that’s happened. Better for us t’ leave all this mess b’hind and make a big change in where we’re goin’.”

  Everything that had happened, all due to her, she had reflected bitterly. Never mind that she could hardly be blamed, given the circumstances; it was, still, her very presence that had disrupted their lives and brought this trouble down upon them.

  Her father had followed her shaky glance about. “Lotta this stuff belonged t’ your ma. Heirlooms, you know. Some you should have; some we should rightfully give back t’ your ma’s family. The rest we can sell. Whaddya say, sweetheart?”

  What could she possibly say, given his eagerness, except yes?

  It was a small farm, but rich with good black loam and close to both river and town. True to his word, Oliver listed the property and sold everything, lock, stock, and barrel—at least, what they didn’t plan on taking along—almost overnight.

  Oliver had contracted with a local wainwright, known for the quality of his work, to construct the prairie schooner they would need, figuring the cost of $125 to be quite reasonable. Its box, approximately eleven feet long by four feet wide by two feet high, stood about half the size of the Conestoga used for early treks west, but would be easier for an oxen team to pull and easier for the driver to maneuver around or over rocks, rough ground, even tree stumps.

  On his good days, strength and stamina allowing, he had traveled to nearby Carbondale, to watch in fascination while his project was being put together.

  Fifty inch wooden wheels, with iron rims installed hot to shrink tightly around the frame once cooled. (He was advised to periodically soak the wheels in water, to prevent the desert air from drying out the wood so much that the bands might actually fall off.)

  A cotton canvas cover, doubled over, hand-sewn, and treated with linseed oil to help keep out rain, wind, and dust. (He was advised that this was no guarantee of protection; even the best covers tended to leak after a while.)

  Replacement wagon tongues and axles, those being first to break in spite of careful maintenance, included for the trip. (He was advised that other wagons, abandoned along the way, could be used for extra parts, if necessary.)

  Yokes of oxen available for sale, at $50 per yoke. (He was advised that, while mile per hour rates would be slower than those using mules or horses, oxen were more trainable and amenable, hardier in the rigors of travel, less expensive to purchase, and less dependent on oats or grain.)

  “So we’re makin’ progress, Janie, girl,” reported Oliver one evening at supper, some two weeks into the undertaking.

  The day had been long and arduous for both, dealing with physical constraints, emotional turmoil, and some mental anguish; and their conversation over the table came in fits and starts.

  “Decided not t’ bring along any of the farm animals,” he added now, spooning up rice and gravy. His lack of appetite was no reason not to show appreciation for his daughter’s cooking, nor to stave off her anxious questions. “The Winsteads are good people, and they’ll take care of the pigs and the few cows and chickens I’m leavin’ here for ’em.”

  “But—Barney? You’d planned on Barney going along with us, hadn’t you?”

  “Of course Barney is goin’ along with us,” Oliver responded soothingly to the worry he heard in her voice. “He’s part of the family, ain’t he? B’sides, that dog will keep you company, when—uh.”

  Only a small slip of the tongue, but it stirred a spark of reaction from the listlessness that surrounded her. Janetta reached across the oilcloth-covered table to pat his hand. “Pa.”

  “I know, honey. I know.” Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he curved his calloused fingers up and around hers, to squeeze gently in return. “So. As the Reverend Ross would tell us, we gotta just trust in the Lord with all our hearts.”

  “Reverend Ross,” she snorted, with a curl to the lip that indicated her opinion of their church’s sanctimonious leader. “He’s one I won’t be sorry saying farewell to.”

  A chuckle, a small clotted cough, a quick sip from the glass of cold well water. After a moment to recover, he continued on, “Used that list posted in the newspaper and got all our supplies lined up t’day, Janie. Everything’s waitin’ for us at the dry goods store, t’ load int’ the wagon.”

  “And that will be ready how soon?”

  “S’posed t’ go back t’ town day after t’morrow, t’ pick it up. Time’s movin’ fast.”

  She sighed. While her fair complexion never picked up much color, even during the hottest of hot summers, this evening’s twilight showed her to be more pale than usual. Little twists of hair had spiraled loose from the thick braid holding it in place, and the few golden freckles sprinkled across her nose glinted with perspiration.

  “How’s things goin’ here at the house?”

  “Mostly packed up, Pa. All that we’re taking with us is stored there, in the parlor.”

  Surveying her fondly, this time it was he who moved to pat her hand. Reassurance. Comfort. An attempt at security. What else can a father offer? “You’re tired, honey. You been doin’ too much.”

  “No more than you,” she returned with a flare of spirit. “You’re wearing yourself, getting everything ready. I wish we had some help.”

  “Oh, now, don’t take on so. We’ve had a run of bad luck lately, but we’ll be a lot better off once we reach Fremont. You wait and see.”

  Her eyes, green as the misty hills of the island from which her ancestors had voyaged, searched his face. “It’s a rare hard trip, Pa,” she said in low tones that throbbed with emotion. “Maybe too hard—for both of us.”

  “May be,” he agreed, after consideration. “But I don’t see we’ve got any other choice. Honey, we been all through this. I wanna see you safe to your ma’s family. You gettin’ cold feet, now, after we been talkin’ about this trip for so long?”

  “Change is scary, Pa. The unknown is scary. I’m just a little afraid, having to leave all this—” the sweep of one hand included the cozy kitchen, and all the rooms beyond, “—behind.”

  Although emotion came easily to Oliver McCain, he had never been a demonstrative man. The most he could do was offer another pat and a shaky smile. “You’re a brave girl, Janie, love, and your ma would be proud t’ see what you’ve b’come.”

  “Proud. Even with—”

  “Even with. C’mon, now. Let’s red up and then see what else we need to stash away.”

  Saying goodbye to the only home she had ever known was one of the most difficult demands life had ever made upon her. Almost enough to turn her right around again, to throw this new start to the wind and huddle in her old bedroom like a hermit in his cave.
But her father was counting on her. She couldn’t let him down. Straightening her slim shoulders, stiffening her spine, she gingerly climbed up over the wheel without a backward glance.

  The trip by wagon from their home to St. Louis had given both a foretaste of what might be expected during the much longer trip.

  Janetta learned to build a campfire from whatever material available (here it was wood and willow; farther west it would be sagebrush and buffalo chips), then cooked over the flames using iron skillet or Dutch oven; Oliver, accustomed all his life to caring for farm animals, learned now to drive oxen, walking on the left side of his team, calling “Gee!” (right) or “Haw!” (left), as necessary. The wicked-looking whip was snapped in the air, used not as goad or punishment, but as a way to attract the oxen’s attention.

  So far, they had lived somewhat off the land instead of having to use many of their provisions. Oliver had managed to shoot the occasional wild duck or catch a trout out of serene blue lakes, and Janetta was scouring the wooded areas alongside their trail for blackberries—just beginning to ripen—late morels, fresh new onions, dandelion and poke greens. The two worked together as a team as well as did their docile four oxen.

  Upon arrival in St. Louis, Oliver’s conferences with several passersby had directed him to this main camp. A leavin’-behind place, they’d called it, where the westward ho! travelers were gathering in preparation for assemblage into the actual caravan.

  And here they were, waiting. Word had spread that the wagon master would be coming along soon, to talk with everyone signed on, answer any questions, and announce their departure date.

  “Janie, girl.”

  The soft raspy voice stirred her out of semi-somnolence. Clearing her throat, shaking her head to revive mental faculties, she straightened and rolled her aching neck over aching shoulders. “Yes, Pa. Something you need?”