The Wilderness Road

by James Reasoner

  As for himself, he hadn't minded the isolation. He had welcomed it, in fact. The friendships he was beginning to form with some of the men were all well and good, but Davis had no desire to be in a crowd of people again. He had always liked having some distance around him, which was why his farm hadn't been close to any of the others back in the Shenandoah Valley.

  "The wagons ought to be catchin' up to you late this afternoon," Mather went on, "seein' as how even oxen can move faster than you boys when you have to stop every few feet and cut down some trees or clean out a mess of underbrush."

  "You'll have to wait on us, though," Grimsby said. "The trail's too narrow up ahead for full-sized wagons. It'll be that way until we widen it out."

  Mather nodded. "I know that, and so do the folks with the wagons. I just want to let your boss know that we'll be right behind you the rest of the way."

  Davis saw several of the men exchange grins. They obviously liked that prospect.

  Davis wasn't sure that he did. He had come out here to get away from people, especially people who might know that he was wanted by the law. But it was pretty unlikely anybody in that wagon train would know anything about what had happened back in the Shenandoah Valley, he decided. None of them would recognize him.

  But still, he felt uneasiness prickling along his nerves.

  Mather rode on, leaving the men talking animatedly among themselves about the prospect of company. Davis didn't join in the conversation. Instead, he turned back to the tree he had been chopping down, and once again his ax began to thud into the wood in a steady rhythm.

  His example reminded the other men of the work they still had to do, and gradually they got back to it. The atmosphere of the group had changed, however, and Davis sensed that there would be no going back to the way it had been.

  A little later, Mather, Colonel Welles, and Conn Powell appeared, heading east. The three men paused and Welles looked around at the workers before saying, "Lads, I'm going to speak to the leaders of the wagon train Mr. Mather is guiding, then I'll want to address you when I get back. But for the time being, just continue working as you have been. This won't change anything."

  It would be nice if that was true, Davis thought, but he certainly doubted it.

  Welles and Powell were gone for almost an hour. When they returned, bringing the group's supply wagons with them, the men had moved a couple of hundred yards along the trail. Powell waved them all together, and then Welles spoke to them from horseback.

  "As you know, a wagon train of settlers will soon be coming along behind us," the colonel began. "It's a good-sized caravan, almost fifty wagons."

  Most of the men grinned at that news. The more settlers there were, the better the odds that some of them would be unmarried women. Bill Grimsby was standing next to Davis, and he leaned over to say quietly, "Maybe I'll find me a wife before we even get to the end of the Road."

  Welles frowned for a second at the murmuring that went through the group, then, as things quieted down again, went on, "I've spoken to Captain Harding, who's in charge of the expedition. We are in agreement that although some interaction between his group and ours is unavoidable, for the most part we should stay to ourselves."

  A groan went up from the men, but it was quickly silenced by a glare from Conn Powell. No one wanted the foreman angry at them.

  "This is for the benefit of everyone," Welles continued, raising his voice slightly. "We don't want to be distracted from our work, and the people on the wagon train—"

  "Don't want to be bothered with roughnecks like us, is that it?" Mcintosh called out.

  Powell edged his horse forward a little. "Damn right that's it," he said. "Those settlers are respectable folks."

  "And we're not respectable?" Grimsby asked angrily.

  Welles held up his hands, palms out. "No one said that. Other than the men who have already left our party, I've been very pleased with all of you. You've worked hard, and you've done everything that Conn and I asked of you. Now we're asking you to cooperate again and honor our wishes."

  This was going to be trouble, Davis thought. The men were still grumbling, and they were going to go along with what Welles was asking of them only reluctantly. But he could understand why the colonel and Powell felt as they did. Men who were busy courting wouldn't be chopping down trees or clearing away brush.

  "Just consider that wagon train forbidden to you," Powell said bluntly. "That's the way it's going to be."

  Welles cast a worried glance at his second-in-command, as if he was concerned that Powell's declaration might spark a full-scale mutiny. But, gradually, the men began to nod in acceptance. They might not like the situation, but none of them was willing to cross Powell openly, either.

  "Well, now that we all understand each other," Welles said, "you can get back to work. I think there's at least another hour of good light remaining."

  Davis was the first one to lift his ax from his shoulder and turn back to the trees at the edge of the trail. Powell sat on his horse, regarding the men coldly as they followed Davis's lead one by one. Soon the woods were full of the sound of ax against wood again.

  That lasted perhaps half an hour. Then, one of the men looked back down the road to the east and froze with his ax drawn back for another swing. "There they come!" he shouted, and immediately all the attention of the workers shifted to the sight of a team of oxen lumbering around a bend in the trail, pulling a wagon with a tall canvas cover over the vehicle's bed. In the late afternoon shadows, the canvas stood out whitely.

  As the men lowered their axes, another wagon followed the first one, then another and another, rolling toward the workers at the plodding pace their teams of oxen could maintain for mile after grueling mile. Even Davis stopped working to watch as the trail filled with wagons.

  The thunder of hoofbeats made him turn his head. Conn Powell came galloping along the trail, and the foreman's face was dark with fury. "Damn it, get back to work!" he shouted. "Those wagons aren't even here yet, and you're already slackin' off!"

  Colonel Welles approached at a slower pace, adding, "Do as you're told, men." He followed Powell toward the wagon train, and they were met by two men who rode out ahead of the caravan. Davis recognized one of them as the guide, Mather, and the other one was likely Captain Harding, who was in charge of the immigrants. After a moment of animated discussion with Welles and Powell, the one Davis took to be Harding raised his hand and signaled for the wagons to halt.

  Davis turned back to his work, hoping the others would do likewise. If they angered Powell too much, that anger would be liable to spill over and be directed at every man in the group, not just the ones who were loafing. Powell already had little enough liking for him, Davis thought. No need to make it worse.

  Gradually, the men returned to their tasks, and the wagons stayed where they were, parked along the trail. Even though he told himself he wasn't interested in the settlers at all, from time to time Davis found his eyes straying toward the big, canvas-topped vehicles. He saw women and children moving around them, and his chest tightened abruptly. He had experienced the same reaction when he saw other families back at the trading post where he had signed on with this crew. The sight was an all too poignant reminder of everything he had lost.

  For the first time in quite a while, he found himself thinking about Andrew. Davis knew he would never see him again, either, which meant that true justice would be forever denied. His breath hissed between clenched teeth as he swung the ax and felt the blade cut into the tree in front of him. In his mind's eye, that tree seemed to become Andrew, and his blows with the ax fell harder and harder.

  "Here now!" Bill Grimsby said from beside him, startling him. "What are you tryin' to do, Davis, chop through what's left of that tree with one stroke?"

  Davis lowered his ax, blinked, shook his head. The tree was just a tree again. Andrew Paxton was nowhere to be seen.

  "I sure hope the colonel thinks twice about lettin' us visit with those folks from the
wagon train," Grimsby went on quietly.

  "Maybe he will," Davis said. It didn't matter to him one way or the other. Even if Colonel Welles allowed the men from the crew to go over to the wagon train, Davis didn't intend to do so. He didn't need any more reminders of what he had lost.

  He swung his ax again, feeling the satisfying shiver of impact go up his arms. Damn the world for not leaving him alone, he thought. And damn the past for not staying where it belonged.

  * * *

  As dusk fell, the immigrants made camp along the trail while the workers moved along to their own camp, which was set up about a quarter of a mile farther on. That distance was not enough to keep either group out of sight of the other, however, or even completely out of earshot. Davis could hear firewood being chopped in the other camp, heard as well an occasional loud voice or the high, shrill laugh of a child. He tried to ignore that sound as much as possible, even though it carved slivers off his heart like an old man whittling a block of wood.

  An air of sullenness hung over the men as they gathered around their own wagons and campfire for supper. The usual talk was subdued tonight, and no one laughed. It went without saying that there would be no singing.

  That wasn't the case in the other camp. Voices were raised in song, and Davis found his gaze drawn to the wagon train, just like every other man in the group. Their main cooking fire was large, and scattered around it were quite a few smaller fires. Silhouettes small and large moved against the glow of the flames.

  The cook had prepared stew again tonight, probably at the orders of Colonel Welles. Normally, it would have been several more nights before the men would have enjoyed such a meal instead of johnnycake and salt pork. There was even fresh deer meat in the stew, and Davis wondered where the cook had gotten it. Conn Powell had ridden out a short time before dark, he remembered, then come back into the camp as night was falling. He must have brought the venison with him.

  Welles didn't wait until after supper to tap the keg of rum, either. He began passing the jug around while the men were still eating. Obviously, he wanted to take their minds off the settlers so close by.

  But if that was the plan, it wasn't working. One of the men, whom Davis knew only as Asa, refused the jug of rum when it came to him. UI don't want it," he said in a loud, angry voice as he suddenly came to his feet. "I don't want this damned stew, either. It'll take more than a jot of rum and a bowl of stew to make me forget there's women right over there!"

  Several calls of agreement came from the men. A couple of them stood up to join Asa. Davis stayed where he was, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to one of the wagons.

  That was the wagon Conn Powell chose to stand on, stepping up onto the lowered tailgate. "Shut up!" he snapped at Asa. "We'll not be havin' any of that kind of talk! You've been told that you're to stay away from that wagon train, and that's all there is to it."

  Bill Grimsby spoke up. "Why can't we go over there? What harm will it do just to visit?"

  Powell's lips pulled back from his teeth in what Davis supposed was a sarcastic smile, but the expression was a hideous one. "So, a little innocent visit is all you've got in mind, is it?"

  "What else?" Grimsby demanded.

  "You wouldn't be plannin' on courtin' any of those immigrant women, or maybe tryin' to find an old man to play a tune on his fiddle so that you can dance with 'em?"

  Grimsby smiled. "Well, now that you mention it, boss, that don't sound like such a bad idea. How's about a dance, boys?"

  This time the men cheered enthusiastically, and Powell responded by putting his hand on the butt of the pistol tucked behind his belt. That gesture made most of the men fall silent.

  But not all of them. Asa lifted a clenched fist and shook it at the foreman. "Ye can't threaten me, Conn Powell!" he shouted. "I may take orders from you durin' the day, but damned if I will at night! I'm goin' visitin'."

  With that, he turned, pushed through the crowd of men around him, and started walking down the trail toward the immigrant camp.

  "Hold it, you son of a bitch!" Powell jerked the pistol free and leveled it at Asa's retreating back. His thumb looped around the hammer.

  Davis was holding his breath, and he wasn't the only one. Tense anticipation gripped the entire camp. If Powell shot down Asa, murdered him in cold blood simply because Asa had disobeyed an order that all of the men considered unjust, there would be trouble, bad trouble. The men might riot, violence feeding on violence. More of them would likely die.

  Powell's face was as hard as stone, and in the firelight, his finger whitened on the trigger of the pistol. Asa never looked back, never broke stride.

  "Conn! No!"

  The words, practically shouted in an urgent voice, came from Colonel Welles. He came hurrying up to the wagon where Powell stood. Davis didn't know where the colonel had been—probably hoping that the situation would resolve itself or at least not get this bad—but he had waited almost too late to take a hand. Powell had come within a whisker of shooting Asa in the back.

  But he hadn't, and now, with a muscle twitching in his jaw, the foreman eased off on the trigger. He glanced down at Welles and said, "You're goin' to have trouble, Colonel, if you don't put a stop to this now."

  "I'll have more trouble if you kill that man, Conn." Welles sighed. "Perhaps we made a mistake. Come down from there and put that gun away. If the men want something that badly, we can't stop them, short of killing all of them. I doubt if they'd stand by while we did that." A bleak smile touched the colonel's face. "Besides, even if we did, then we'd have to finish widening the road by ourselves. I think that's a bigger job than either of us can handle."

  Powell didn't like it. His grimace made that plain. But he lowered the hammer of the pistol carefully and slid it behind his belt again. "You're in charge, Colonel," he said. His tone made it clear he considered that unfortunate.

  Welles ignored that and turned to face the workers. "All right, men," he said. "You've made your point. I suppose it wouldn't hurt for you to pay a visit to the wagon train. But I expect you to be on your best behavior. If there's any trouble . . . any trouble at all . . . I won't stop Mr. Powell the next time when he wants to take discipline into his own hands."

  Asa had stopped on the edge of the camp to listen to what Welles had to say. Now he lifted a fist into the air and called out, "Three cheers for the colonel, boys!"

  Most of the men cheered, but it was rather perfunctory. They were too busy getting on their feet, straightening and brushing off their clothes, and swiping their palms over tangles of unruly hair to put too much enthusiasm in their cheers for the colonel. The group swept eagerly toward the other camp.

  Davis stayed where he was, watching them go.

  Bill Grimsby noticed him and hung back for a moment. "Come on, Davis," he said. "Aren't you going?"

  Davis shook his head. "You go on," he said. "I'd just as soon stay here."

  Grimsby frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. Me, I'm not goin' to pass up the chance to dance with a pretty woman—or even an ugly one!"

  He hurried after the others, and Davis turned his attention back to the bowl of stew in his hands. He used a piece of johnnycake to sop up the last of the stew, then reached out to snag the jug of rum someone had left sitting on a nearby stump. He took a bracing swallow of the fiery liquor.

  Colonel Welles strode past him, along with Powell. "I'd better go over there and make sure Captain Harding doesn't try to turn the men back. That could cause an ugly scene, too," the colonel said to his second-in-command.

  "I’ll go with you," Powell said, his voice still taut with anger. Davis couldn't decide who Powell was more angry with: the men, for disobeying orders, or Welles, for allowing them to get away with it.

  Davis stayed where he was, not really ready to head for his bedroll yet, but unwilling to join the other men in the immigrant camp. He had the place to himself after a bit. Even the cook and the wagon drivers from the work crew ambled over to the other
camp. Davis allowed his thoughts to drift.

  His mind went back, unbidden, to the early days of his marriage to Faith. They had been so happy then, or at least that was the way he remembered it.

  In truth, he supposed, not everything had been so rosy. Although Faith had been adamant about marrying him over her father's objections and moving with him to the Shenandoah Valley, Davis knew there were times when she missed her family. She had probably wondered if she had made the worst mistake of her life.

  It had certainly turned out that way, he mused.

  But in those first weeks and months . . . even years . . . of their life on the farm, Faith had seemed happy. She had been loving and cheerful most of the time, and no one could have asked for a better mother to the children who had come along one after the other. Davis had been convinced that things would always stay the way they were.

  Ah, but that was when he should have begun to worry, he realized now. The good things that happened to a man had only a limited span of life, like the wildflowers that pushed their way up through the soil every spring to bloom in lush beauty for a few weeks before they withered and died. That was what happiness was—a wildflower quick to blossom, quicker to fade.

  But at least a wildflower sowed its seeds before it died, so that the beauty would return the next spring. And a flower didn't have the capacity to hate the ones that came before it.

  As his children probably hated him now, having been filled with the lies about their mother's death and his part in it . . .

  His forearms were resting on his upraised knees, and his hands clenched into fists as his head dropped forward in his pain.

  Sitting here alone and brooding had been a mistake, he told himself. Better he had gone over to the immigrant camp with the other men, uncomfortable though it might have been for him. In seeking to avoid the painful reminders of what he had lost, he had simply found an even deeper grief.

  Perhaps it wasn't too late. He lifted his head, forced his hands to relax, and put one of them on the ground beside him to balance himself as he got to his feet.