“No, sir,” Win said.
“You ain’t going to the gold fields in Montana, are you?”
“No, we’re—”
“Don’t matter where you’re going, as long as you ain’t Mormon or going to Montana. Only fools go to Montana, and Mormons are peculiar.” He spoke with a tone that didn’t invite further discussion. He pointed to his train. “These here folks are tough, honest farmers who can handle their own teams and know which end of a rifle to point. Could get there without me, truth be told, but are smart enough not to try. You been through Sioux country before?”
“I have—twice,” Win said. “My partner hasn’t, but he can handle it.”
The trail captain eyed Jeb again and then turned back to Win. “Who was your pilot?”
“Clint Sanders. He’s as good as they come.”
The lines on the captain’s weathered face softened. He pushed his hat back and leaned on his saddle horn. “Shew, that ol’ sonofabitch. Clint and me go way back. Scouted together in ’50, when we was just pups.” He extended his calloused hand to Win.
Win leaned over and shook the man’s hand. “Win Avery, sir. This is my partner, Jeb Daw—”
A scream and a splash interrupted their job interview.
While their potential new boss opined about Mormons, Jeb had been watching a wagon enter the river. The husband, Jeb assumed, rode on horseback next to the family’s oxen. His wife drove the wagon. Her hair was light colored and she wore it like Jeb’s mother had, in a low twist at the nape of her neck. From the back, she looked exactly like Sarah Dawson and, for a confused moment, Jeb thought it might be her. His head cleared, however, when he saw a young girl at the back of their wagon wrestling with a squirmy, little, black dog. The girl screamed when the dog wiggled out of her arms and dropped into the river. Jeb signaled to Galen, who lunged forward and held himself steady as Jeb stretched down from his saddle to fish the soggy little animal out. The girl, who had leaned out too far calling to her dog, lost her balance and tumbled out of the wagon. Jeb jumped off Galen to pluck the sputtering girl from the river before she washed away. He stood in water up to his thighs with the dog tucked under one arm and the girl under the other, both soaking his shirt. The man on horseback arrived to take the girl from him and, reluctantly, the dog as well. Win was grinning ear to ear as Jeb sloshed back up the riverbank, Galen following calmly behind him.
“Shew, I guess I gotta bring you along now.” The captain did not offer so much as a thank you or an inquiry into Jeb’s condition. “I’m Dutch Ferguson. The boys on this train are stand-up fellas. The rules are that this ain’t a democracy—everybody does what I say. No swearing, spitting, or scratching in front of the women. Can’t pay you, but we’ll feed you in exchange for a good day’s work. If that sounds fair, you’re welcome to join us.”
Jeb pulled off his boots to drain the water as he considered the arbitrary nature of the journey he and Win had begun. Loose dandelion seeds, they’d blown across the path of Dutch Ferguson’s train and latched on to it. He stuffed his feet back into squishy leather.
“That sounds fine. Much obliged,” Win said. “We’ll go as far as we can with you. We’re headed for Denver.”
Dutch nodded. “You’re smart to come this way. It’ll take you longer, but you’ve got a better chance of arriving with your scalp. You heard about them Cheyenne and Arapaho at Sand Creek, I take it. That crazy bastard Chivington stirred up trouble for all of us when he attacked. Plains were safer twenty years ago than they are now. Indians are out for revenge. We’ll stay sharp and try to be polite if we run into any.” Their new boss then entered the river and crossed with the last wagon.
“And, by the way, thanks for saving that little girl,” Jeb muttered to himself as he squeezed water from his shirttail. Win burst out laughing, not at Jeb, but with elation, as though having Jeb along broke up some low-hanging clouds of his own. Jeb had to admit that, despite getting soaked, hearing Win let loose helped massage some feeling back into his anesthetized spirit.
Jeb dried out completely that evening at the cook’s campfire, where he and Win met the other hired scouts. Win turned quiet; Jeb figured he was feeling out the group. They met Bill Foster, who was working his way back to his home in California, where a wife and teenaged daughter waited for him. A fellow named Toby seemed capable enough, but fidgeted. When he sat on the ground to eat, he’d bounce his leg up and down. Rolf Peterson was a big man, tall and thick—the kind of fellow men want on their side in a fight. A big kidder, Rolf teased Jeb more than once about saving a dog, although his tone was friendly.
The only scout Jeb didn’t like was Robert Dale, who stated unequivocally that complete removal of the Indian was the only way to ensure peace and prosperity in the West. Jeb noticed that Win stayed away from him.
The mother of the little girl who had fallen into the river peeked around the corner of Cookie’s wagon, her face illuminated by the fire. The men rose; they all looked ill at ease in the company of a woman except for Bill, who welcomed her by name. Jeb removed his hat when the woman approached him, carrying a dish covered by a cloth.
“Mr. Dawson, my husband said it was you that pulled Patches and Lizzie from the river. I don’t know how else to thank you, except to offer you this.” She folded back the towel, revealing a warm berry cobbler. “Lizzie should’ve known better than to lean out of the wagon like that. We’ll try to be smarter at the next river crossing,” she said with an apologetic smile and tilted her head the way his mother used to. Jeb asked her name again, forgetting how Bill addressed her. “Grace Moberg,” she said. If their conversation had been private, he might have shared with her that he’d just lost his mother, and he responded so quickly because he’d been noticing how much alike they looked, and even though he’d been living on his own, he missed her. He might have even told the woman a little about Sarah Dawson, how she was graceful and kind and full of life. But, surrounded by trail hands, he just thanked her. She smiled again and left.
Each man produced a fork, indicating that Jeb would be sharing his reward. Jeb took as big a bite as his fork could hold and passed it to the next in line. By the time it came back to him, he scraped the remaining last crumbs from the pan. More banter ensued from Rolf, this time encouraging Jeb to save Patches again at the next crossing, as that Miz Moberg made a fine cobbler.
Nebraska Territory in May looked like a rolling, green sea. Jeb had heard that some people became terrified by the vast emptiness of the prairie, but he saw sacredness in its beauty.
Hippocrates loped up to him, falling in alongside Galen. “There’s our ocean,” Win said.
“This is far better than swabbing a deck. You’re right, Win, the sky is bigger.” Jeb breathed in the earthy scents of the prairie. “You were right about a lot of things. I’m never going back. I belong out here. When did you first feel it?”
“Hmmm . . . That’s a hard question. I envy you, Jeb. Maybe not at this particular time, but, in general, you are a man with a content disposition—a man at peace. Me, on the other hand, I’m always trying to find something, and I don’t even know what I’m lookin’ for. And it gets in the way of . . . well, appreciating things. It is beautiful out here, no doubt about that. It can turn on you, though. This country is the harshest I’ve ever seen. Sometimes the evil and beauty, the ugliness and splendor, get kind of jumbled together.”
“That’s what draws you to it.”
“Maybe so.”
Word came from one of the scouts that Fort Kearney had reported cases of measles. Dutch said he was more afraid of measles than Indians, because at least he could see Indians coming and knew what he was up against. Measles spread silently and could wipe out a train before anyone knew what hit them. He ordered the train to change course and head for Midway Station instead. Win took the news in stride, so Jeb did, too—not that he had any say in the matter.
The men began taking turns on a night watch. At midnight, Toby kicked Jeb and Win awake, saying it was time for their
shift. Win grabbed his rifle and motioned to Jeb to follow him. They walked about a hundred yards away from the wagons to a little rise where they could see in every direction.
“What do we look for?” Jeb whispered as they settled in.
“Anything sneaking up on us,” his friend said, keeping his voice low, “but with this full moon, there’s nothing to worry about.” Win produced a handkerchief filled with biscuits that he’d stuffed inside his shirt, obviously stolen from the cook’s wagon. He pulled them apart and gave half to Jeb.
“Cookie’ll have your hide if he finds out you stole these.”
“Better eat up, then,” Win said.
Jeb destroyed the evidence by stuffing it in his mouth and looked around. He could see for miles on the moonlit prairie. Win seemed to know what he was talking about. Nothing could sneak up on them.
“There was a fellow at the mill who hated Indians,” Jeb said after a while. He spoke quietly—voices carried at night. “Like that Robert Dale. He told story after story about terrible things they’ve done to settlers. It’d make your blood run cold.”
“Hmmm . . . I’ve heard those stories, too. Pretty damn scary.”
“Have you ever seen any?”
“Only from a distance.” Win laughed quietly. “I heard someone say that sympathy for the Indian is directly relative to the distance one lives from them. He was talking about folks out east who think of the Indian as a noble savage living in consort with nature. He said Indian-lovers are people who just haven’t met one yet.”
“Seems to be Dale’s opinion.”
Win shook his head sadly, his eyes scanning the landscape. “White folks can be ruthless, too. I was ashamed when I read in the papers about the execution in Mankato. Thirty-eight Dakota hanged.”
“President Lincoln reviewed the trial records himself to determine which ones committed rape and murder of civilians. Hundreds were released.”
“The Indians left the reservation in the first place because the government didn’t send the food they promised. They were starving. Wouldn’t you leave and fend for yourself?”
“Yeah, but raiding for food and carving up people are two different things.”
“I agree. It’s just that there’s a lack of understanding on both sides. A lot of hate comes from ignorance, but neither side seems to want to listen to what the other has to say.”
“The Swedes and the Irish at the sawmill hated each other, but I knew men in both camps who were decent fellows.”
“My old boss, Clint, told me about an Indian who saved his life. He said he was a decent, honorable man. They’re still good friends.”
“Don’t know why we all can’t just get along.” Jeb felt naïve saying the words out loud.
“Yup. It’s a complicated mess.” They were quiet for a while, listening to the crickets. “Lose much tonight?” Win asked finally.
“Two bits; haven’t played poker in months. I’m a little rusty.”
Win removed his hat to scratch his head. “Well, when Rolf’s bluffing, he glances at everyone first. If you’ve got anything better than a pair, call him. And just fold if Toby ever stops bouncing that damn leg of his.”
“You’ve got a keen eye. What else have you learned out here besides thievery and poker?”
“Well, let’s see. Clint taught me enough of the Arapaho language to get me into trouble. And I’ve spent some interesting nights with whores. I learned a fair piece of knowledge from them, and they’re more fun to talk about.” He grinned at Jeb with one eye closed in a wink.
“You always were good at learning when you put your mind to it.”
Win laughed quietly. “Yeah, the subject captured my interest, for sure. How ’bout you? You been with a woman?”
Jeb snorted, giving away that the experience had not been all he had expected, something he’d admit only to Win. “The boys at the mill went drinking every Saturday night, once they collected their wages. I never saw the point of working so hard all week just to lose it in one night. I went along a couple of times, though, so they wouldn’t think I was unfriendly. They visited a bordello and talked me into going. Got kind of a young, pretty one the first time, but the next time I got one that was . . . coarser. Just didn’t seem right.”
“Huh,” Win said. Jeb wondered if Win was recalling his own experiences. Coyotes yelped from a fair distance away.
“How’d you feel? You know . . . afterward.” Jeb scanned the grasses as they rustled in the breeze.
“After being with those women?” Win asked. “Hmm . . . educated. I got a really good one once. Believe me, she was different from most. I paid her extra to show me what to do—you know, what women like . . . It isn’t something a proper wife talks about, I guess.”
“Didn’t you feel . . . I don’t know . . . guilty?” Jeb shifted in his seat. “I felt kinda bad, like I used her.”
“You paid her, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, two dollars.”
Win waved his hand as though to absolve Jeb’s lingering guilt. “Consider it paying for a type of education you can’t get anywhere else. Believe me, that knowledge is gonna come in handy someday. Look at Glenn Moberg . . . his wife is so sweet and nice. Why? ’Cause he knows what he’s doing, that’s why. I’ll bet if you asked him, he’d say he got helpful experience from a sportin’ gal before he ever met that nice woman. How else are you supposed to know what to do?”
Win had an unconventional, yet oddly pragmatic, view of the world. Jeb figured it came from being shuffled around from home to home when he was young. Maybe he had seen and heard more than boys should and drew conclusions that may not have been accurate, but had been etched in his young mind nonetheless.
Jeb considered Win’s view of the Mobergs. Mr. Moberg was a pleasant, contented man, who had an equally pleasant wife. His own parents had been happy that way, too.
“That Grace Moberg sure looks like Ma, doesn’t she? Goddamn outlaws. Why couldn’t they have just shot each other? Why’d they have to take Ma and Pa with them?”
Win nodded. “Hmm . . . I don’t blame you for asking that. But, you know, Pa kept questioning why my ma got sick. He couldn’t get an answer, and it ate away at him. Influenza took Ma’s life, but then Pa let the bottle take his. Hard to say what my fate would have been if your folks hadn’t stepped in. I’m not saying you can’t feel the way you do, but you’ll never get an answer to your question. Eventually, it’ll come down to this: are you going to let those men take your life, too, by letting grief swallow you up? Or are you going to beat them by living your life in spite of what they took from you?”
Often full of bullshit, this time Win made sense.
By mid-afternoon the next day, their luck with good weather had run out. Jeb smelled the change in the air. He and Win rode the back left flank of the train, watching the clouds build on the horizon. The breeze switched directions and picked up speed. Storm clouds billowed and the sky lost its brilliant blue color, fading into a hazy white. The air became heavy.
Win stood tall in his saddle and craned his neck in the direction of the approaching storm. “That’s gonna hit right about sunset.”
Lightning was the biggest danger out in open country. Dutch turned the lead wagon and headed for a low area. No guarantee, but it was safer than the top of a ridge. Orders came to hustle along. Galen snorted and whinnied nervously when the bank of clouds stuck on the horizon broke loose and rolled closer. Distant, rumbling thunder warned of the power trapped inside the large, dark anvil blocking the late-afternoon sun. Dutch motioned to the men to circle up.
The animals were herded inside the corral of wagons, men tied down every flap, and women piled trunks on top of each other to make room for their families inside the only shelter on the open prairie. A bolt of lightning and clap of thunder sent everyone scrambling. Jeb unsaddled Galen inside the corral and tried to stash his gear inside the supply wagon, but other men had already claimed the spot. Win grabbed some wooden crates, shoved them under the cook�
�s wagon, and showed Jeb how to squeeze himself and his gear on top of them. As soon as the rain began, water ran under the wagon, but the men and their gear stayed dry.
“How many miserable rainy nights did you spend before you figured this out?” Jeb propped his head up against his saddle.
“Only took one.”
Jeb lay quietly and listened for the roar of a twister hidden inside the storm, since he couldn’t watch the sky while tucked under the wagon. He’d seen only one tornado in his life, but witnessed the destruction it caused many times and knew the wagon was no shelter against its power. Lightning illuminated the wagons encircling the livestock. Many of the horses congregated together. Galen and Hippocrates stood next to each other. Jeb wondered if it was intentional—if they felt safer together—or if it was just a coincidence.
Win then produced a deck of cards and, to Jeb’s surprise, some jerky and a bottle of whiskey. “We can’t drink too much, or Cookie’ll notice.”
“I swear, Win, you’re gonna get caught someday and then what—”
Win sat up in surprise, cracking his head on the underside of the wagon. “Look at that!” He pointed past Jeb to the horses inside the circle of wagons. Blue light tipped the horses’ ears, like ethereal, blue flames. “Remember that book your ma read to us about the ship that glowed with blue light during the storm?”
In the story, electric discharge at the ends of the mast and crosstrees caused the tips to emit a pale-blue light. “I remember,” Jeb said. “Ma called it St. Elmo’s fire.”
“Out here, they call it ‘foxfire.’ ”
“I guess that’s some of that splendor mixed up with the harshness you were talking about.”
A flash of lightning illuminated Win’s face. Jeb could tell by the way his eyes shone that Win believed every word as he said, “It’s a sign. Something good’s gonna happen. Foxfire always brings good luck. You’ll see.”
The storm raged on, the wagons a ring of isolated ships on the prairie sea. After a swallow of whiskey apiece and a halfhearted attempt at a card game, the two friends stretched out on the wooden crates, listening to the rain. Jeb wondered what other evil and splendor was out there, all jumbled together.
Open Road Page 3
