Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

Meg said she was tired, but otherwise fine. As they all turned their attention to James, Meg’s thoughts turned to Win, and she imagined him on that warm summer evening, making camp with the Crow.

  The Dawsons had another good harvest in the fall and the following February, Charles Winston was born. Meg delivered so quickly that again, Georgia missed the birth, but came anyway to help with James and see the new baby. Jeb wanted to name him after Meg’s father and give him “Winston” for a middle name. Meg hesitated, asking if Jeb wouldn’t prefer to give his son a name from his side of the family. He reminded her that they were already Dawsons, which gave him more pride and satisfaction than he’d ever imagined possible. Since he seemed to have resolved whatever jealousy he felt toward Win, she agreed.

  In mid-June, Gus delivered two saddle-ready geldings to a nearby rancher and returned with a mysterious sack. He was grinning ear to ear as he dismounted and gently pulled the big burlap sack off the back of his saddle.

  “Got a surprise for you, James.” Gus laid the wiggling, yipping bundle gently on the ground. Two yellow pups tumbled out. “Got one for you, and one for your brother. You’re gonna have to take care of ’em both ’til Charlie’s old enough. Can you do it?”

  James wasn’t yet two years old and stared blankly at Gus. Meg, holding Charlie in her arms, raised her eyebrows in doubt. Gus looked at the child’s mother with pleading eyes.

  “I’ll help him a little. Their names are Billy and Buddy. Is it a deal?”

  Meg laughed. “How can I say no to that?”

  Gus pulled a wad of cash from the horse sale from his pocket and handed it to Meg as he sat down with James and the pups. They all scrambled over to him, vying for his lap. Jeb came over from the barn and knelt down to play with the pups as well. Gus reached into his back pocket and pulled out a letter from Win. Meg cried out in surprise; it had been almost a full year since they had heard anything. Jeb opened it and scanned it quickly.

  “He’s all right,” Jeb said. Meg sighed with relief. “He wrote it only two weeks ago.”

  Dear Jeb, Gus, and lovely Meg,

  Today is June 1, 1871.

  I hope this letter finds my dear family in good health and prosperity.

  You will undoubtedly read about the Hayden expedition in the news, the first federally funded geological survey of the Yellowstone. While the man in charge gets the recognition by having the expedition named after him, you should know that he is one soul among thirty-two who are along to facilitate the operation. I am one of those souls as well.

  Our purpose is to further survey and document features of the region. Along on this expedition are a couple of well-known names—Wm. Jackson, the photographer, and Thomas Moran, artist. Lieutenant Doane, who I met last year, is heading our military escort. While the presence of the military often attracts the very problems they are hired to protect the surveyors from, he is a fine chap. He grew up out here and possesses natural frontiersman qualities. A superb horseman and excellent shot, he won over the Crow guides with his capabilities. There is a botanist, a topographer, a meteorologist, an ornithologist and mineralogist, and an entomologist and physician. Nearly all of them have at least one assistant. I counted twenty-seven horses and twenty-one mules in the remuda, and five wagons and two ambulances are packed and ready with food, tents, and stoves to keep us comfortable. There is also a good supply of instruments—I learned how to use a clinometer, which measures the angle of a slope, and there are enough sextants and compasses with which to circumnavigate the world.

  The whole operation is directed by Jim Stevenson, a fine fellow, as is the wagon master, Ben Hovey. Jeb, you would like them both. In my experience, good trail bosses tend to be the most down-to-earth folks around. Their judicious minds and steady demeanors serve a traveling party well, and these gentlemen are fine examples. Their objectives are transparent and straightforward, something I cannot say about a handful of the participants accompanying Dr. Hayden. Scientific research is the overt objective, but now that I have spent some time with some of Dr. Hayden’s associates, I wonder to what end the research is for. So far, Hayden believes there is nothing in Yellowstone of any practical value, such as extractable minerals or usable timber. He maintains the only value is esthetic. Someone in the party said the area should be kept from human access in order that it remains in its pristine, untouched state. Another mentioned he hoped to find a good spot for a hotel, as the area would soon boom with tourism. The first fellow made me laugh, since numerous tribes have lived here for centuries, but the second fellow made my heart ache with loss and sadness. I wonder what conclusions will be drawn from this endeavor and what will become of Yellowstone once it has been thoroughly studied. While admittedly eager for the adventure, I am keeping a cautious eye on what comes from it all.

  I am signed on as a guide and hunter. The other hunter, José, and I are in the good graces of both cooks, knowing from experience that they can be some of the most important, yet unrecognized, contributors to a successful mission. In addition to hunting, I was told I will be called upon to communicate with Indians if necessary. I am becoming more proficient in Crow and French, but I pray any conversation does not become too sophisticated. By the way, Bouchard found he had no patience for scientists, preferring sensual rather than cerebral company. He and Birdy have disappeared, as I expected. I understand and even envy him to a certain extent. We parted amicably and I hope we will meet again.

  We are stopped at an outpost not unlike Paradise to assemble before heading into the Yellowstone River valley. Due to the terrain, I imagine we will set up a base camp where our wagons can rest on level ground and the scientists will venture on foot to complete their work. If there is opportunity to write again, I will. There is good traffic back and forth, as specimens are sent back regularly. I should dearly love to send an order for one of Meg’s peach pies. It would be a welcome surprise to emerge from one of the resupply crates, but, as it is, I must simply savor the memory.

  I think of you all every day and hope you are well,

  Win

  Meg waited for Jeb to meet her gaze. She then smiled and said, “We are . . . well and happy.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: WIN

  En route to Dawson ranch, 1873

  Win rode south. Hippocrates stepped lively, with renewed energy, as though he recognized his surroundings.

  It had been four years since Win and Jeb escorted Major Powell into the mountains; four years since Win had asked Meg if she would be happy married to Jeb. Much had happened.

  Win had written to announce he was coming for a visit, asking if they would welcome a weary traveler. He made his letter sound lighthearted, but, in truth, he had been away far too long and needed to replenish his soul. He needed Meg. He wanted to see Jeb, too, and to be around people who loved and accepted him.

  During the four years Win had been gone, Powell had taken his crew down the Colorado River and not only lived to tell about it, but was famous for it. Passing interest in the American West had turned to obsession by many, with competing interests. As Rothenberg had predicted, exploration of the territory became a government priority. By 1872, Yellowstone became a national park, and four large, federally funded surveys were being simultaneously conducted.

  Powell obtained funds from both the Smithsonian Institution and the government to lead a second expedition, the Geographical and Topographical Survey of the Colorado River of the West. Primarily interested in geology and ethnology, he investigated the problem of aridity and human adaption in desert lands. Win still believed Powell to be the most sympathetic to the native inhabitants, and acutely aware of long-standing cultures disappearing.

  Clarence King continued to lead the 40th Parallel Survey, the survey Win first read about in the newspaper while still driving freight. King’s crew examined the geological features and natural resources across a band of land between the 105th and the 120th meridians.

  Congress granted George Montague Wheeler $75,000 to map the area west of the 100th
meridian on a scale of eight miles to the inch, a task expected to take fifteen years to complete. Wheeler’s purpose was pragmatic, as his maps would be used for settlement. They would aid the first steps toward building roads and railroads for transportation, and dams and irrigation that would enhance agricultural development. The quietest, least talked about of the four giants, Wheeler’s survey was supported by the war department, which made Win increasingly uneasy.

  Ferdinand Hayden, geologist-in-charge of the United States Geographical and Geological Survey of the Western Territories, searched for deposits of oils, coals, clay marls, and other mineral substances. His reports of his expeditions to Nebraska and adjacent territories—southern and eastern Utah, southern and eastern Wyoming, the upper Yellowstone, and eastern Montana—opened the Great Plains in a way no militia could. But Win wondered at the price being paid. Yellowstone National Park was an example of the dilemma.

  While Win approved of preserving Yellowstone from development, he was appalled to discover it meant preserving it for the recreation of white Americans only. Indians were not allowed to live within the park’s borders. Can you believe the irony? Win had written in one of his letters. I am so frustrated and torn between the marvels of discovery and the subsequent exploitation that comes from it. I find myself increasingly at odds with those I initially held in high regard.

  He was equally enraged by Hayden’s Nebraska report, in which Hayden advised that the Great Plains were not the “Great American Desert,” but a richly endowed region, in which even the Sandhills of Nebraska would “yet become a fine pasture ground for herds of sheep, cattle, and horses.” Then why not let the buffalo graze and the Indians hunt on it, then? Win wrote with derision.

  Win became increasingly critical of the people and politics shaping the country. The appointment of Francis Walker to the position of superintendent of Indian affairs disappointed him deeply. When he discovered that Walker agreed with President Grant that all Indians should be secured on barren reservation land that had no mineral or agricultural value, an enraged Win wrote to Jeb:

  How can a man who is so deluded as to call the Indian “lazy and cowardly in battle” be qualified to address their needs with the judiciousness they deserve? If Crazy Horse decides to challenge this ludicrous directive, I will be with them. Those with whom I felt initial alliance, those whose purpose I thought was to protect the wilderness from exploitation, have now become my enemies. I should have known that even scientists, though they understand the natural world far better than the average person, are naïve when it comes to politics and are coldly indifferent to the impact their research has had on the peoples originally living here.

  Win and Hippocrates loped past the entrance to a farm lined with a row of lilac bushes. He hadn’t seen lilacs in years, but remembered them from Rockfield. Every farm had them and their scent filled the air. He rode up to the house; a middle-aged woman came out and stood on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “What can I do for you, mister? There’s no job for you here.”

  Aware that his wild appearance might frighten her, Win held up his hand. “Not looking for one. I just stopped to admire your lilacs, ma’am. They remind me of home.”

  “That’s why we planted them. They smell pretty, at least when in bloom, and are as tenacious as weeds.”

  “I wonder if I might buy one from you. I’m going home to visit my family. Lilacs would be a nice addition to their garden. I’ll dig it up myself and promise to be careful.”

  She sized him up from top to bottom, looking wary, but decided in his favor. “Tell you what, if you dig up both of those on that end, and these two here, they’re yours.” She pointed to bushes that, if culled, would clean up her hedgerow nicely. “I’ll give you some burlap to wrap the roots. Just dunk the bag every time you pass a stream and they should make it. You going far?”

  “Paradise.”

  “Oh, they’ll make it just fine. Plenty of streams, and, like I said, they’re tenacious. Can’t hardly kill ’em.”

  Several hours later, Win was back on the road, dragging a makeshift travois with more lilac bushes than he had intended. But it was worth the extra work. After he thinned her lilacs, she asked if he would climb up on her roof and patch a spot that leaked last time it rained. He agreed, and when he climbed down from the repaired roof, she handed him a bar of soap and a razor and suggested that he scrape some of that wilderness off him and spruce himself up before his visit. She even gave him a haircut and a new shirt as payment for his help, saying that if he was going home, he should arrive presentable.

  Win bypassed the town of Paradise itself. He’d see everyone eventually. He found Jeb in a high meadow at the corner of their property, constructing a stone pillar to mark the boundary. Hippocrates whinnied at the sight of Galen. Jeb looked up as Win picked his way down a steep slope.

  Jeb greeted him the same way he had years ago when Win returned after his parents’ deaths. Jeb’s inability to hold a grudge was one of his better qualities, yet it still surprised Win to be greeted so warmly.

  “Win, you old outlaw.” Jeb’s handshake turned into a bear hug. “By God, it’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise, partner. It’s good to be home.”

  “I’m glad you let us know you were coming. We’ve all been higher than kites since we got your letter. It’s been far too long.”

  “I was beginning to wonder if I could find my way back.” Win looked around.

  “I never doubted you could. You’ve been making love to my wife through those damn letters of yours for years. You were probably hoping I’d be out of the picture by now. I should break your jaw right here.”

  Win threw his head back and laughed. “My letters annoyed you, eh? All written with innocent good humor in mind, my friend. Hell, look what I brought—lilac bushes! What does that tell you? I’ve accepted the fact that you two are an old married couple. Why, a row of lilac bushes is as domestic as you can get!”

  Jed looked at the bundles. “She’ll love them.”

  “Will she forgive me for staying away for so long?”

  “You’re talking about Meg. What do you think?”

  “The Meg I knew was a forgiving woman.”

  “She still is,” Jeb said as he scraped the remaining cement from the bucket and tossed the trowel back in it. “C’mon. Let’s celebrate you home.” With bucket in hand, Jeb jumped on Galen and they started for the ranch.

  As they rode to the house, Win felt the years fall away. Jeb asked him how long he could stay. Win replied he could probably stay a fortnight, if they could tolerate him that long. Jeb said they’d have plenty of time to ride up and see Gray Wolf. Win thought that was a grand idea. Win saw the piñon tree up on the hill and grave marker for Biscuit and for the baby Meg lost—a girl. Win had had a vision of Meg sitting on the porch with a teenaged girl. He’d had the vision several times, and wondered if he had seen the future. He thought about telling Jeb about it, as a way to offer comfort.

  “Meg says she wants to be buried under that piñon tree,” Jeb said.

  “Hmm . . . I’m sorry about the baby. I know this sounds strange, but I think you’re going to have a girl yet, I really do.”

  Jeb smiled. “Are the spirits telling you that? Do you hear them, too? Meg swears she hears things up here.”

  Win raised his eyebrows and looked around. “Maybe. You never know.”

  They came around a corner and stopped to take in the view of the Dawson homestead below. Their sturdy brick home, two stories tall and positioned perfectly in the meadow, looked like it had always been there. It fit. Smoke rose from the stone fireplace in the kitchen at the back of the house. Meg chased a little blond-headed boy through the garden in front. He squealed with delight as she swept him up in her arms and spun around. A breeze carried his giggle up the hill to them.

  Win stared, taking it all in. From Jeb’s letters—written with faithful regularity to the Diamond City post office, where Win passed through
when he could—he knew Meg was a mother, the mother of Jeb’s two boys. But until now, it hadn’t completely registered. How long had he been gone? Gus came out of the barn and saw the men. He must have said something to Meg, because she turned then and eased the boy gently down to the ground, peering up the hill. Win could tell the moment she recognized him. Just as she had done years ago when they first brought Gus to the old way station in Paradise, she picked up her skirts and ran full speed toward them, shouting his name with such excitement it made his heart pound. Years and children had slowed her a little, but she was still surprisingly fast. And typical for her, she was covered in dirt, having just wrestled a toddler out of a garden. Win jumped down and Meg flew into his arms. He held her tightly, finally experiencing what he’d dreamt about since the day he left. He longed to kiss her passionately and for her to kiss him with equal fervor, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. She was happy to see him, but she was happily married. She kissed him quickly on his lips with the same affection she showed Gus. Then she tucked her head into his chest and hugged him tightly.

  Jeb looked on, a man at peace, a man without envy. As they walked to the house, Win held her hand. He felt the wedding ring on her finger and his heart broke just a little. He squeezed her hand, privately, wondering if she would pull it away. She smiled at him, openly took his hand in both of hers, and squeezed back. There was nothing secretive about being happy to see him. His heart sank—unwarranted, but it sank nonetheless.

  Gus strode over as they entered the yard, two little boys and two dogs in a jumbled mess behind him. “Damn good to see you, Win.” Gus stuck his hand out and slapped Win on the shoulder with his stump.

  “Same here, Gus.” Win shook hands with the old man warmly. Then Win knelt down to be eye level with Meg’s boys. James was four years old and had Jeb’s sand-colored hair and build. He would be tall and strong someday. Charlie had Jeb’s build, too, but Meg’s coloring. He had his mother’s playful eyes, and they sparkled. Win pushed his hat back and took a long look at them both.