© 2007 by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-0-8054-3290-9
Published by B & H Publishing Group
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Headings: WESTERN STORIES
Contents
PART ONE Temperance
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
PART TWO Thaddeus
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PART THREE Quaid
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
PART FOUR Rena and Bent
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
TO
Fran Hebel and Kathy Anderson—
the finest two Yankee ladies I know!
PART ONE
Temperance
Chapter One
SPRING HAD COME TO Oregon Territory, bearing its spongy odors, and the birds had returned, bringing their anthems announcing the end of winter. Their cheerful songs pleased Temperance Peabody as she drove the team at a fast trot along the trail that led to Walla Walla. The wind out of the north was still raw and chilling, and Temperance savored the rank smell of winter’s breakup of rotted earth about to come alive.
Lifting her gaze, she took in the mountains. The noon sunlight gave the snow-capped peaks a brilliant glitter, and there was pleasure in the sight, for mountains always gave her a sense of exultation. She held the lines loosely but sat up straight, making a rather prim figure. She had a wealth of light brown hair and a pair of wide-spaced, well-shaped blue eyes, but she was not a beauty. Her face, strong rather than pretty, was marked by high cheekbones and a mouth too wide for stylish beauty. Her long, composed lips spoke of a temper that could charm a man or, at times, chill him to the bone. Her hands were square-knuckled and strong, and she was faintly full at the breast and narrow in the waist. Although she had just celebrated her thirty-second birthday, she had the figure of a much younger woman, though this was mostly concealed by a heavy wool coat.
As she approached the town, Temperance’s attention centered on a group of wagons not drawn into a circle, obviously part of a newly arrived train. Drawing the wagons in a circle, she understood, was a protection against Indians, but the Indians in this part of Oregon Territory were not troublesome in the year 1850. She was not surprised to see the train, for Walla Walla was the jumping-off point for the last leg of the long journey from Independence, Missouri, to Oregon City. Walla Walla was seated close enough to the Columbia River that the immigrants naturally halted here to make their final decisions. There was no trail through the Cascade Mountains to the coast that wagons could follow, so the Columbia River itself was the only way for the seekers of land to reach the coast.
Suddenly Temperance drew the horses to a halt. Her eyes had touched on a small child sitting flat on the ground, crying and rubbing her eyes. Quickly she secured the lines, then jumping lightly to the ground, moved quickly toward the young girl.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
The child, no more than two, looked up with tear-stained cheeks and frightened eyes. “Mama!” she whispered faintly.
“Come along. We’ll find your mama.” Reaching down, Temperance picked up the child and held her close. At first the small girl resisted but then threw her arms around Temperance’s neck and held on tightly. The embrace brought a clear thrill, of sorts, to Temperance. She had always loved children and as a girl had longed for her own family. No man had claimed her, so the dream had evaporated. Still, at times when she saw a small child like this, the old desire for her own children would return with a force that shocked her.
As she approached the wagons, a woman came running toward her crying, “Pearl, where have you been?” She stopped in front of Temperance and held out her arms. At once the child cried strongly, “Mama!” and grabbed the woman.
“I found her sitting on the ground.”
“I declare, this child is a wanderer!” the woman cried. She was a lanky woman with light hair and faded blue eyes—and worn by the rigors of the trail. “I’m so glad you found her. Thank you so much for bringing her back.”
A tall, rangy man with a worried expression on his lean face hurried up, snatching his battered hat off. “We’ve been looking everywhere for Pearl. Appreciate you bringing her back.”
“Oh, you would have found her, I’m sure. She was only a few hundred yards down the trail.”
“Well, you know how it is when a child gets lost or something,” the man smiled. He had a narrow face and a full, brown beard. He looked as worn and tired as the woman.
“My name is Josh Summers,” he said. “This is my wife Faith and this is Pearl.”
“I’m Temperance Peabody.”
“You live here in Walla Walla, Miss Peabody?” the woman asked.
“No, I have a homestead five miles out of town. Did you just get in?”
“Yes, ma’am, just pulled in this morning.” Summers took a deep breath and shook his head faintly. “It’s been a sight of trouble getting here. We’ve been on the trail for four months.”
“Have you been to Oregon City yet?”
“We were just starting to go when we lost Pearl. Most of the others have already gone.”
“How far is it to Oregon City?” Mrs. Summers asked. Like her husband she was worn down to a thin edge. The trail, Temperance knew, did this to people. They came seeking free land, but the land was not really free. By the time they made the dangerous journey from Independence, Missouri, and arrived on the land itself, there were still trees to be felled, cabins and fences to be built, and the land to be broken. A sudden feeling of pity rose in Temperance. “You still have a way to go, and there’s no trail for the wagons.”
Summers nodded. “I heard about that,” he said. “The saying is that we have to take the river down to Fort Vancouver and then from there we can drive on to Oregon City.”
“That’s right. Some just abandon their wagons and take the trail over the mountains with what they can take on pack animals.”
“We can’t do that. We need the wagons, the stock, and the farming tools. We brought them all the way from Missouri,” Summers said. “I reckon I can build a raft. Is it dangerous—floatin’ down the river?”
“Well”—Temperance hesitated—“you should be all right. The worst of the spring floods haven’t started yet.”
Summers looked down at the ground and chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. When he looked up, there was discouragement in his face. “I wish we’d never left Missouri.”
Mrs. Summers put her hand on his arm and smiled. “It’ll be all right, Josh. This time next year we’ll have a cabin built and the crops will be in.”
The man smiled and put his arm around her. “I swan, you’re a comfort, Faith, you purely are! Good to meet you, Mrs. Peabody.”
“Just Miss. I don’t have a husband.”
Something about the statement caught at the couple. They looked at the woman as if trying to pick the heart out of her words. “Well,” Mrs. Summers said, “you’re a young wo
man yet. You’ll find one, I’m sure.”
* * *
AS ALWAYS WHEN TEMPERANCE approached the town, she felt a twinge of remorse that took the form of longing for the past. Walla Walla was not built for beauty, being a raw frontier town. The buildings were, for the most part, built of logs, although, since the sawmill had come in, there were now a few unpainted, framed buildings. There was a main street with a hotel, saloon, stable, blacksmith shop, and several stores, none bearing any marks of beauty. They were all utilitarian structures built to serve the farmers in the local area and the travelers reaching the final stretch of the Oregon Trail.
Temperance could not help comparing the crude dwellings with the small town in Maine where she had grown up. She remembered the straight, attractive streets with the strong, well-built houses of stone and brick, each with its little garden in the front and flowers around the house. She remembered her family’s house, with its polished walnut furniture gleaming darkly with curving grace built by master craftsmen. She suddenly had a vision of the town with the white church, its spire lifting high into the sky, gleaming white in the sunlight, while out at sea the white sails of the schooners and the clipper ships dotted the blue-green waters of the sea.
The dreams of a more amiable town made a faint longing in Temperance, but she had learned to accept the rawness of the frontier. It had been difficult, but she made that transition. Other dreams were more difficult to control, and the ones that gave her the most difficulty were her girlhood dreams. From the time she was entering into her teens, she longed for what most women want: a husband, children, and later grandchildren. Now that first youth had faded, she had quietly put those dreams away, but at times they would return with a strength that troubled her.
Temperance shook her shoulders, and her broad mouth tightened as she almost forcibly rejected such thoughts. “Get up, Lucy—Alice,” she said, and the team broke into a faster trot. Pulling up in front of an unpainted frame building with a sign “Satterfield General Store,” she wrapped the lines tightly and got out of the wagon. She held her skirt high but was unable to avoid the mud that soaked her calf-high leather shoes. Reaching the boardwalk, she stomped her feet, and some of the mud fell off. She entered Satterfield’s and at once was greeted by the owner.
“Wal, now, Miss Temperance, good to see you.”
Silas Satterfield, owner of the general store, was forty-five years old. He had a shock of orange-red hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes. He also had a house full of children, eight at last count, and came forward at once, wiping his hands on his apron and smiling as he approached. “Looks like winter’s ’bout over, don’t it now?”
“I’m glad of it.”
“So am I. Been a hard winter.”
“There’s part of a wagon train parked just outside of town.”
“Yep, some of the folks have come in.” Satterfield nodded his head. The two stood there talking, and finally Satterfield asked, “How’s the Jackson family doing?”
“The children are fine, but Mr. Jackson is poorly.”
Satterfield drew his hand down his face and shook his head in a gesture of futility. “Cholera’s a terrible thing. It’s like one of the Old Testament plagues.”
“It is bad.”
“Well, you’re doing your bit helping sick folks. I don’t—”
Satterfield broke off as a big man entered the store. He wore a pair of greasy buckskins, moccasins, and a round trapper’s hat. A gray beard covered his mouth, for the most part, but his eyes were quick and black. Although he was not a young man, somewhere past fifty, there was a strength and bull-like vitality about him.
“Howdy, Silas. How be you, Miss Temperance?”
“I’m fine, Marshal Meek.”
Silas Satterfield grinned at the big man. “I wisht I was a federal marshal and didn’t have no more to do than you do. If you did a day’s work like I do here at the store instead of rambling all over the country, you’d be tired enough to sleep at night.”
Joe Meek grinned and shook his head. There was a wildness in the man. “You don’t know how hard it be catching up with these hard cases.”
“Marshal, have you seen Burt Denton?” Temperance asked.
“Your hired hand? No, I ain’t seen him in some time. Why? Did you lose him?”
“I saw him,” Silas Satterfield said. “He came in here yesterday. Bought supplies and rode off. Said he was going prospecting.”
Meek’s sharp black eyes took in the expression that changed on the face of the woman. “Did he get to you, Miss Temperance?”
For a moment Temperance hesitated. “I paid him off, and he asked for an advance and I gave it to him.”
“He never was no good,” Meek grunted. “Wasn’t broke out with honesty. I come near to hauling him in a time or two.”
“He wasn’t much of a worker either,” Temperance said, “but he was all I could get.” She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Do either of you know of a man I could hire for spring plowing?”
Meek laughed deep in his chest. He was a man who could not be still, and now his feet twitched and his shoulders moved as he slapped his meaty hands together. “I know of one, but he ain’t no better’n what you had.”
“I’ve got to have somebody. Who is he?”
“His name is Thaddeus Brennan.”
“I don’t know him. He’s not from here?”
“No, ma’am. He’s just a drifter. He got drunk and wrecked the Dancing Pony last night. Ain’t got a cent to pay for it.”
“You think he would work for me? You think he can plow?”
“I don’t know about that, but he sure picked the wrong saloon. Judge Henry owns half of that place, you know. He was mad enough to hang Brennan, but I reckon he couldn’t do that. If the judge set out to hang every drunk in the territory, there wouldn’t be enough rope.”
“I guess he’s got him in the jail.”
“Sure has, but he’s going to make Brennan work out the fine at a dollar a day. I guess if you hired him though, the judge would be willing to work it out with you, Miss Temperance.”
Satterfield suddenly grinned. “If he don’t suit, you can hand him back to the judge.”
Temperance hesitated and then said, “I’ve got to have somebody. I think I’ll go talk to Judge Henry.”
“Tell him I said it’d be fine with me.”
The two men watched as the woman left, and then Satterfield shook his head sadly. “I feel right sorry for that woman. She’s had a tough life.”
“Was it some man done her wrong?”
“Don’t think she’s ever had a man. Never been married anyhow. She come here with her family eight years ago. Yankees, they were, Joe. Five couples came out here to start some kind of a religious settlement. Her pa was the leader.”
“I heard about them folks. Real strict in their ways so I heard.”
“Wouldn’t eat an egg laid on Sunday, that bunch! It was downright hard on the girl. They wouldn’t let her see any man at all. She did the teaching of the kids, and when her pa got sick, she had to take up the slack.”
“What happened to them? They ain’t around here anymore, are they?”
“No, that settlement kind of fell to pieces. Miss Temperance lost her parents, and the rest of the bunch wasn’t as strong as her pa was.”
“Well, I’ll run down and tell the judge to give her a break—though I don’t know if Brennan would be of much help. He’s a whiskey bum as I see it.”
“Do what you can, Joe. She’s a good woman. Works herself into a frazzle helping all these sick folks around here. This cholera, it’s going to kill off half the population!”
* * *
THADDEUS BRENNAN WOKE UP, lifted his head, groaned, and put it back on the thin, corn-shuck mattress. The hangover did what it always did, gave him a splitting headache. He cursed feebly, then pulled himself up and peered around the room with a dismal expression. As he did, the door opened, and Benny Watts came in. The jailer was a rather dim-w
itted young man with a long, skinny neck and a prominent Adam’s apple. He had a tray in his hand and said, “I done cooked you breakfast, Brennan. I hope you like mush and fatback meat and coffee.”
Staring bleary-eyed at the young man, Brennan spoke in a husky whiskey voice. “I need some whiskey. Go buy me a bottle.”
“Buy you a bottle with whut?”
“There’s money in the leather bag in my saddle.”
Watts grinned broadly, and his Adam’s apple joggled up and down as he said, “You ain’t got no saddle nor no horse neither.”
Brennan stared at the young man. “What are you talking about?”
“You wuz out cold when they had your trial.”
“Trial? You can’t try a man when he’s unconscious!”
“I reckon you jist don’t know Judge Henry, Brennan. When Marshal Meek drug you in, he jist laid you down on the floor right smack in the judge’s office. The judge was sore as a boil that you wrecked his saloon. He claimed he wouldn’t wait for no trial, so he found you guilty. Fined you two hundred dollars for wrecking the Dancing Pony.”
Brennan stared at the horse-faced young man. He got to his feet, then swayed dangerously. “He can’t do that!”
“He done it all right. Told the clerk to sell your stuff.” Watts giggled. “And he sentenced you to work out the rest of the damages for a dollar a day, building roads. Take about a year,” he said.
Brennan once had a fiery, uncontrollable temper that had gotten him into all sorts of trouble. Now at the age of forty-one, he had learned to control it. However, it broke out again. He reached out and slapped the tray from Benny’s hand. The contents sloshed all over Watts, who stared down at the wreckage of the breakfast. “Well, there went your breakfast,” he observed, then turned and left, locking the door behind him.
A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel) Page 1
