With a smile that lifted the corners of his mustache, the older man nodded. “And you’d be Mrs. Chadwick, I presume.”
“Yes. I hope I’m not late for our meeting.”
“Not at all. By the way,” he said, motioning to the younger man, “this tall drink of water is Cole Selby. He’s going to be my right-hand man on the train. Cole will inspect your wagons after we speak and make sure you have the proper provisions for the trip.”
Susannah nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ma’am.” Cole barely looked her in the eye.
Susannah gave it no further consideration. Her own boys could be quite shy around strangers. “I read The Prairie Traveler,” Susannah spoke. “I’ve studied it since deciding to move west.”
“There’s good information in that book, but there are also a lot of things you can’t really know except for experiencing them yourself,” Daniel replied. “I need you to keep this list of rules and study them up.” He handed her a piece of paper. “It’s important that your children know the rules as well. They’ll help to make things run smoothly and to keep folks alive.”
Susannah glanced down at the list for a moment, then returned her gaze to Daniel Keefer. He seemed like a dependable sort. He had an honest face, weathered and tanned from his life out under the sun. “I’ll make sure the children understand.”
“Most every rule on that list will be to your benefit. Curfews are established to make certain everyone is well rested. Can’t be having a bunch of rowdies staying up all night keepin’ other folks awake. Rules for how to treat the animals and where to arrange for them at night are for the sake of safety and order. Once we’re on the trail, you’ll see for yourself just how smooth things can run.” He shifted and grinned. “Of course, these rules help when things aren’t running as smooth too. Folks being folks—it’s always hard to have some three or four hundred people with one goal in mind and not have someone wanting to do things their own way.”
“I see you have a rule about alcohol consumption,” Susannah said, noting her list again. “I’m glad to see that. I suppose, however, liquor for medicinal purposes is allowed?”
“Absolutely. I just can’t be having my men drunk when there’s a very real possibility of Indian attack.”
“Is it truly that dangerous?” Susannah hugged herself to refrain from shuddering.
“It is indeed. There are a dozen or more tribes between here and Virginia City, and at any given time they can all be on the warpath. Pawnees, Crow, Cheyenne, and Sioux have all been giving us grief from time to time. They resent the whites taking over their hunting lands and killing off the game. They don’t care how many people they have to kill—they just want us gone. Bringing a wagon train full of folks is just the same as insulting them—it wounds their pride.”
“And causes them to retaliate,” Susannah said, imagining the horror of watching her children die at the hands of such savages.
“It’s just something to consider, ma’am,” Keefer continued. “With the large number of wagons and families, I’m figuring we’ll be fine. And things bein’ what they are, you’ll probably have more complaints with your fellow travelers than with the Indians. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to have Cole check your wagons and gear. Can you advise him as to where you’ve liveried your animals and wagons?”
“Of course. We’re just down the road at the Smith Brothers Livery.”
Cole nodded. “I know where that’s at. I’ll get to it right away.” He nodded to Susannah. “Ma’am.”
Susannah waited until he’d gone before turning her attention back to the wagon master. “I’m sure he’ll find everything in order, but please send me a message if anything is amiss. I tried to adhere to the book. I didn’t want to make the ox teams work too hard. I mean to get to Virginia City in good condition, Mr. Keefer.” And she did. Never before had she been more determined to accomplish anything.
He nodded. “I can appreciate that, Mrs. Chadwick. I think you’ll do just fine. I don’t generally allow widowed woman on my trains, but since you have three strapping boys to help, I’m sure you’ll be all right.” He started for the door, then turned abruptly. “I almost forgot. We’ll leave for Independence day after tomorrow.”
Susannah said nothing about his mistaken idea that three of her sons would accompany them. Let him suppose that was how it would be. Hopefully he’d be too busy to learn the truth of it until they were far enough west that he couldn’t refuse them. She put her hand tenderly to her stomach. Same for this matter. No one needs to know about the baby until it’s too late to do anything else about it.
Dianne looked at her brothers in sheer disbelief. “You really expect me to milk the cows? I don’t know anything about it.”
“That’s why we’re taking you down to the livery. You need to learn and quick. Milking is women’s work,” Zane told her with an air of authority.
Morgan nodded and added, “It’s real simple, Dianne. Otis showed us how. It was kind of hard at first, because we had it all wrong in our minds. We figured you just pumped the teat up and down and the milk came out, but that’s not the case. You have to kind of squeeze and roll your hand down, all at the same time.”
Dianne frowned. “It doesn’t sound all that simple to me. I’ve never been up close to those beasts—you know that.” She stopped on the boardwalk, refusing to go any farther. “What if they decide to step on me?”
Morgan shrugged and Zane gazed heavenward as if completely exasperated. “Just come on,” Morgan encouraged. “If I can do it, you can.”
Dianne wasn’t convinced and as they made their way to the expansive livery stables of the Smith brothers, she felt even less confident that her brothers were right.
“Our stock is at the far end. We have the milk cows, the oxen, and the horses here. The chickens are kept elsewhere. The cows have to be milked twice a day. Once in early morning and once in the evening,” Zane instructed as they moved toward the end of the stable.
“Are those our wagons?” Dianne asked, pointing to an open area opposite the stalls.
“Sure are,” Morgan replied. “Ma paid extra to have them kept here. She thought they’d be safe from riffraff.”
Dianne paused for a moment and looked at the wagons with a sense of disbelief. “Doesn’t it seem strange to have our entire household packed up in those?”
“I think it’s a good thing to be rid of so much stuff,” Zane said. “I don’t mind at all that we’re starting over. I’ve always wanted to go west.”
“But won’t you miss having a table to sit down to for supper?” she questioned, looking first to Zane and then to Morgan. “Won’t you miss having an indoor bathroom and a pump right in your kitchen? We’ll have to haul water from rivers and creeks on the trip—it won’t be easy.”
Morgan laughed. “Doesn’t matter how easy it is. It’s going to be an adventure and a heap of fun. You girls might miss your fancy duds and conveniences, but I’d trade them all for a chance to explore where no white man has ever stepped.”
Dianne went to the stall where the horses were kept. The mare she’d taken as her own moved toward the gate. No doubt she hoped for a treat, as Dianne had spoiled her over the last few days as they had become acquainted with each other.
“Sweet Dolly,” Dianne said as she rubbed the buckskin’s black mane.
“Come on, you can spend time with your horse later. We’re supposed to teach you how to milk,” Zane protested.
Dianne stepped over to the pen where the cows were nervously bunched together. Morgan grabbed a rope and fashioned a loop. Without any qualms about his task, he stepped into the stall. The cows moved away from him, as if uncertain as to whether he meant to do them harm. Dianne and Zane watched as Morgan easily laid the rope over the nearest cow’s head and tightened the loop down.
“Zane, you open the gate real easy-like and keep the others back.”
Zane did as instructed while Dianne moved to stand behind him, almost frightened of wha
t might happen. What if the other cows decided to rush toward the opening? Would Zane be able to stop them from escaping? How in the world would she ever be able to do this task on her own?
Morgan moved out with the cow and walked her around to the far side of the stall. Roping her to the fence, Morgan threw a few handfuls of hay into a feeding trough and waited until the cow settled into eating.
“I’m not exactly sure how this will work on the trail, but I figure to ask around and see what other folks do to handle this.” He reached around and took hold of a bucket and three-legged stool. “These both belong to us. I had Ma buy them yesterday. Up until today, Mr. Smith has been having a couple of the locals take care of the milking, but since we’re set to leave day after tomorrow, I figure we’d better show you how it’s done.” He put the bucket down beside him, then placed the stool in position.
“If you touch her like this,” he said, running his hand alongside the cow as he lowered himself to sit, “she knows where you are and doesn’t get so nervous.” He pulled the bucket under her udder and reached to take hold of two teats.
Dianne came around to better see what Morgan was doing. “Does it hurt her?” She couldn’t bear to think that she might cause the animal pain.
“Nah. In fact, Mr. Smith says it hurts ’em if they aren’t milked.” The swishing sound of milk hitting the pail sounded almost melodic.
Dianne smiled. “She doesn’t seem to mind it too much.”
Morgan continued milking. “I told you.”
Zane joined them. “Better have Dianne give it a try or she’ll never learn just standing here jawing.”
Morgan nodded. “You ready?”
“I don’t know; it seems …”
“You’ll do just fine,” Morgan said, moving the bucket. He smiled up at his sister. “You always need to mind the pail—cows have a penchant for knocking it over.”
Dianne swallowed the lump in her throat as Morgan moved aside and motioned for her to take his place. She went closer to the beast and gently touched her rump. The cow hardly seemed to notice. Dianne waited for a moment, just petting the animal with long smooth strokes.
“Work won’t get done that way,” Zane teased.
Dianne lowered herself to the stool and moved the bucket under the udder as she’d seen Morgan do. “Now what?”
“Take hold of her and squeeze and pull at the same time,” Morgan told her. “You’ll get the hang of it after a few tries.”
At first nothing happened. Dianne squeezed as hard as she could but only a dribble of white liquid showed. She looked up to Morgan and Zane, feeling stupid and helpless. Morgan leaned down and took hold of her hand.
“Like this.” He squeezed her hand and pulled down at the same time. The action caused a stream of milk to squirt out against the pail.
Dianne gave a tiny squeal, causing the cow to shift nervously.
Morgan laughed and admonished her, “You need to stay calm.” He stood back up. “Now try again.”
Dianne did and found complete success. “I see,” she murmured. She milked the cow for several minutes, enjoying the rhythmic sound of the liquid as it hit the pail. Glancing up to smile at her brothers, Dianne caught sight of someone rummaging around one of their wagons. “What’s he doing?” she questioned, forgetting the cow, the pail, and the milking. She jumped to her feet abruptly, causing the cow to skitter away, knocking the pail of milk over as she did.
“Oh, bother,” Dianne said, noting the mess. Her brothers had both turned to see what had caused Dianne’s alarm.
“You stay here,” Morgan said softly. “He might be a thief.”
Dianne felt her heart skip a beat as Morgan and Zane moved toward the wagons.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Morgan called out in a gruff voice that sounded much deeper than his usual.
The man, who was crouching to inspect the undercarriage of the wagon, turned with an annoyed look on his face. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Looks like you’re messing around where you have no business. Those are our wagons,” Zane announced.
Dianne disregarded Morgan’s instruction and came up beside Zane. She watched, somewhat amazed, as the man rose to his full height. He had to be at least six foot four, maybe even taller. But his height wasn’t nearly as intimidating as his dark-eyed stare. She cowered and pulled behind Zane, wishing she’d heeded Morgan.
“I’m Cole Selby. I’m working with Daniel Keefer, your wagon master. I have to inspect the wagons to make certain they’re in good working order and that the loads aren’t too heavy or packed too loosely. Now, if you’ll leave me to do my business …” He let the words trail off as he crouched down again.
“Anybody could say they were with the wagon master. We have no way of knowing the truth of it, mister. At least not until we talk to someone who knows you.”
Mr. Selby didn’t even look up at this. “Go ask the Smith brothers if you have any doubt. They can vouch for me.”
Dianne saw Morgan and Zane exchange a glance as if questioning whether they should do this. They were saved having to make a decision, however, when Jeb Smith came walking toward them.
“Mr. Smith,” Morgan greeted, stepping toward the older man. “This man claims to be working with our wagon master. He says he’s supposed to inspect the wagons—is that true?”
Dianne watched the white-haired man for any expression that might suggest Mr. Cole Selby was a liar. Instead, he smiled. “Sure it’s the truth. That’s Cole Selby. He’ll be looking your animals over too.”
They all looked back at Selby, who seemed completely undaunted by their concerns. “I told ’em that, Jeb, but you know children. They’ll fuss and fret.”
Dianne watched her brothers stiffen. They would be eighteen come June, and she knew they considered themselves every bit a man as Selby.
Jeb Smith chuckled. “You folks don’t have a thing to worry about. Cole is one of the best judges of horseflesh I’ve seen in these parts. Seems to have a natural way with it. He’s good with the rest of the livestock too. You can put your faith in him.”
“I’d just as soon keep my faith in myself,” Morgan muttered under his breath.
At this Cole rose once again. He walked around the wagon, stopping not a foot away. Dianne felt her breath catch at the intensity of his stare.
“You’d do better to put your faith in those animals,” Cole said dryly. “They’ll be a whole lot more durable and reliable after a week on the trail than either of you—or the girl.”
Dianne bristled at this. She was slow to get her anger up, but this man was just plain rude. “Come on, Morgan. Tell me more about milking,” she said, reaching out to take hold of her brother. “You too, Zane. I’m sure to need you both.”
Selby sent the briefest glance her way, and Dianne felt a chill up her spine. There was something about this man that suggested he was not at all happy—not with them … or with life.
CHAPTER 4
TRENTON CHADWICK PULLED THE COLLAR OF HIS COAT UP AND watched the torrent of cold rain as it pounded the Mississippi just up the river from New Madrid. The shack he shared with the Wilson gang, a group of Confederate guerillas, seemed poor shelter from the raging storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the river for just a moment. Trenton worried that a flood might ensue if the rains didn’t stop soon. The plankboard cabin was sure to be engulfed if that happened; they weren’t positioned but about twenty feet off the river. Thunder boomed, rattling the only window in the crudely made shelter. Trenton shook his head. Maybe they wouldn’t have to wait to be flooded out—the lightning might well do its own damage.
The tiny porch on which Trenton took cover was of little protection. The wind blew the rain up and under the overhang, pelting his face. Still, being rain-soaked and cold beat having to deal with the drunken stupor of Jerry Wilson, leader of the gang of cutthroats.
Trenton had only teamed up with the men at the insistence of his best friend, Robbie Danssen.
Robbie knew Jerry’s younger brother, Sam, and had promised Trenton the men were as bent on revenge against the North as anyone around. Trenton wasn’t sure his choice had been wise, however. Jerry Wilson had such a temper that he was likely to see someone killed just for looking at him the wrong way. Sam Wilson was so jealous of his older brother’s power with the gang that he spent most of his time picking fights with his sibling. Within the last week alone, Trenton had witnessed three brawls, two of which ended with knives being pulled. The brothers were not of a peaceful nature, to be sure.
The rest of the gang was no better. Gustaf Johnson, or “the Swede,” as they all called him, was a twenty-six-year-old silent type who knew his way around explosives. Having come west when the war started up, the Swede was from a mining family in Pennsylvania. Trenton didn’t know what to make of the big man. He seemed reserved and cautious most of the time, but Trenton had seen him nearly strangle a man to death for pouring him a short glass of whiskey when he’d paid for a tall.
Then there was Mark Wiley. He was a hot-tempered gunman who had already earned a bad reputation by the time he was sixteen. Texasborn, Wiley was wanted in two states—his homeland and Louisiana. It was said he had killed as many as twenty men, and Trent could believe it. Just two days past when he’d gone with the Wilsons on a raid for horses and saddles, Trenton had seen Wiley put bullets into three different farmers without so much as a remorseful expression. There’d been no reason to gun down the men, but Wiley seemed to find it entertaining.
What have I gotten myself into? Trenton couldn’t help but wonder. The storm of confusion within him was ten times worse than the raging storm about him. All I want to do is avenge Pa’s death. I just want to show the Yankees that they can’t treat people that way and not expect retaliation. Although he couldn’t be sure, Trent felt confident that it had been a Yankee bullet that had killed his father. Robbie felt confident too. His father had heard talk. Still, there was some concern—some doubt. Trenton clenched his hands into fists. I can’t worry about it one way or another. This is my way of honoring Pa.
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