“Hate to see you do that, Sky.” Birdwell understood his friend’s thinking, for Sky’s father was a missionary to the Sioux in the North, and his mother had been half Indian. “Might be good for the boy, being around his kin and all—but I’d hate like blazes to see you go!”
“Can’t keep on like this. I’ve got some bad memories back there, but Joe and me are at a dead-end here. Wish I’d never come!”
“You need a wife, Sky,” Sam told him.
“I had a wife.” The words were cut off short, and the dullness in Sky’s blue eyes reflected an inner anger. “You know what she was like.”
Sam bowed his head and considered his answer. He had known Sky Winslow for five years; his thoughts flew back to their first meeting. Sky had entered the store with his wife Irene; Birdwell still remembered how beautiful she was—how bright and outgoing—and how he had envied the dark young man. “We’ve got a place in the Willamette Valley,” Sky had said. “Be coming in as often as we can for supplies.”
Sam thought regretfully of the rumors that had come only a short time later—rumors about Irene Winslow. Sky had been out trapping most of the time, and one day a drunken logger had let Irene’s name drop in a saloon. Oregon City was a small town, and word spread fast, though Sky never seemed aware of what everyone else in town already knew.
The rumors were further fueled two years later when Sky left Irene and Joe in town for a month while he went north into the hills for better furs. Irene had taken up with a gambler; the two of them openly carried on a romance. Sam had gone to Irene and begged her to show better judgment, but she’d ignored him.
And so, it had been Sam’s job to meet Sky when he came back to Oregon City and tell him that Irene had left town with the gambler, leaving Joe with him. He would never forget the flash of rage that leaped from Sky’s eyes, and he feared that Winslow would take off after them. “You’ve got Joe to think about, Sky,” Sam had reminded his friend. “I’ll help you.”
Now Birdwell looked across the table at Sky and recalled a dinner they had eaten here nearly two years ago; after the meal, they’d walked back to the store to find a letter from San Francisco for Sky. He’d opened it, read it silently, then looked up to say, “Irene’s dead, Sam.” There had been neither hatred nor regret in his tone—only a sense of defeat.
“You know, Sam, this is why we left to come to Oregon in the first place.” Sky had reflected aloud. “She never could leave the other men alone. But it sure didn’t help to come here, either—did it?”
Breaking out of his reverie, Sam rose to his feet. “Let’s get out of here, Sky.” He paid his bill, and they both walked out into the cold air. “You got business to take care of, I reckon.”
“Sure.”
“Get it done, then meet me at the Rainbow later.”
“Not much in the mood for that,” Sky remarked quietly. The Rainbow was a noisy place, the biggest saloon in Oregon City.
“I’ll get us a back room. We’ll have a quiet game—just a few of our friends.” Sam slapped Winslow on the back. “Come on; it’ll do you good.”
“I’ll come for a while.” Sky glanced up, saying distractedly, “Hmm . . . looks like snow tonight,” then walked down the muddy street into the falling darkness.
****
The five men gathered in the back room of the Rainbow were a diverse group. Sitting out a hand, Sky sat loosely in his chair and considered the men around him. Each of them had the potential to greatly influence the growing town, he knew. It also occurred to him that there might be more to the meeting than just a friendly poker game. While there was nothing strange in the gathering itself—the men at the table were old friends of his, and it was a long-standing custom to have a game whenever he came to town—there was something watchful about them this night. He leaned back in his chair and studied them through half-shut eyes.
Judd Travers was the oldest, a tall skinny man with a craggy poker face. He was a crafty businessman; not a dog barked in Oregon City—or in the Willamette Valley, for that matter—that he did not know about. No one knew how much property he had, and those who tried to compete with him in business soon found out that his rustic appearance was deceptive, for his brain was as sharp as a razor.
On his left, Henry Sellers, the banker, was of a different stamp. The well-dressed fat man had brought the manners of the East with him. He was the only banker in Oregon City, and a man to be reckoned with; for those who wanted to do business usually had to go through his bank. He was a deacon in the Baptist church, and supported most of the benevolent activities of the town. His charity, however, stopped at the card table, for there he was a carnivore.
Clay Hill threw down his cards and glared at Sellers. “Blast you, Henry! You’ll break your back trying to fill an inside straight someday.” Hill, though not over twenty-five, was one of the sharpest lawyers in the territory. He had a thin face and a pair of sharp blue eyes. In the courtroom, he was a predator; he hated to lose, and would do anything necessary to win his case.
Sam laid his cards down and laughed. “An agreeable way to die, Clay.” He took out his watch, looked at it, then snapped it shut and replaced it in his vest pocket. “You’ve won enough of my money for one night, Henry.”
Sky started to rise, but Clay reached out and pulled him down, grinning. “Wait a minute, Sky. You don’t know yet why we’ve got you here.”
Sky sat back, looked over at Birdwell, and smiled slightly. “I’d guess it’s another one of your wild schemes, Sam. I hope it’s a far cry better than the one you had last year. Mink farming!”
A whoop of laughter filled the room, and Sam said loudly with a red face, “You just wait! Somebody’ll do it one day, and it’ll put you trappers out of business!” He waited soberly until the laughter stopped, then leaned forward and said, “Sky, this town is startin’ to grow. The whole territory is going up—it’ll be a state one day, and not too far off. But what we’ve got right now in this country is a mess!”
“You talking politics, Sam?” Sky asked.
“Partly. Matthew Poole may be polite, but he’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg, Sky! And he’s in the saddle!”
“That’s gospel!” Clay Hill spoke up. “I’ve been in politics all my life, and I’ve never seen a man get such a grip on a town in so short a time!”
“He sure gets the votes,” Travers said.
“Yes, and when he can’t get ’em honestly, he has Rolfe Ingerson tend to it!” Hill snapped. “Poole, Ingerson and Dandy Raimez have got a death grip on this town!”
“You fellows come here to make campaign speeches?” Sky asked.
“No—listen, Sky,” Sam insisted. “We’ve got a good thing here in this country. Plenty of water, good farming, more timber than any place on the planet. But we’re going to lose it if we don’t do something about the way things are.”
“Tell him your plan, Sam,” Travers urged.
Birdwell glanced at the others awkwardly, and Sky could not imagine what was coming. He was fond of Birdwell, but wary of some of his ideas. “Out with it, Sam. Can’t be completely crazy if you’ve got these three interested.”
“All right, here it is,” Sam swallowed. “What we need in this country is families. What we’ve got is a bunch of hard-nosed men. Got to have families to make a territory work, and . . . and . . .” He stumbled for a moment, then blurted out, “And you gotta have wives before you can have families!”
Sky stared at him. “Well, who’s arguing with that?”
“Nobody, Sky—but nobody’s doing anything about it, either!”
“And you’ve got some plan to get women here?”
“That’s it!”
Clay Hill laughed shortly. “Sky, I thought it was crazy at first, but Sam’s kept at me until I agreed to it.”
“Nah—it’s a good plan,” Travers spoke up. “ ’Course, it’s got its drawbacks—like all plans—but I’ll back it.”
“It all sort of depends on you, Sky,” Henry Sellers explained.
“The four of us can put up the money—but we need a man who can give some time and who knows his way around.”
Sky grew irritated. “Look, why don’t you just tell me what this great plan is and let me make up my own mind?”
“All right, Sky,” Sam said quickly. “Here it is. There’s lots of men who want wives in Oregon—and lots of women back East who want husbands. All we have to do is fix it so as they can get together.”
Sky stared, unbelievingly, then whistled softly. “This is much worse than mink farms, Sam!” He watched the serious faces of his friends closely. “I expect this sort of thing from Birdwell—but how in the world did he suck you fellows into it?”
“Let me explain,” Sellers told him with the air of authority that usually clung to the banker. Sky had always respected the man, and liked the fact that his religion was not all talk, so Winslow leaned back and listened carefully.
“Sam is right about families. We must have them, Sky! I hate to see my own children grow up in a town like this—full of rough men! Now, what we propose is to form an association that will arrange for transportation to this territory for those women who would like to find a husband and a home. It will all be handled in a very businesslike manner, Sky.” He saw a doubtful frown knit Sky’s brow. “Believe me, I’ve asked myself most of the same questions you’re thinking of. ‘What kind of woman would come under such conditions?’ Well, some bad ones I suppose, but I’m thinking that there are decent women who—through no fault of their own—have no home and can’t get a husband. We’ll screen them, though I recognize we’ll make some mistakes.”
“What if they get here and don’t see a man they like well enough to marry?” Sky objected.
“Then we’ll pay their passage back—with no hard feelings,” Sellers assured him.
“It’s going to be expensive,” Sky remarked. He was only mildly interested, and could not see why they had asked him to sit in. “Passage around the Cape is high.”
“Well, that’s another matter,” Travers said quickly. “I’ve come up with a plan that will get the ladies here free of charge. What we do is bring them here on a wagon train—making enough off of the goods we bring in the train to pay all expenses.”
Sky gaped incredulously. “Judd, you’re proposing to bring a bunch of women by wagon train? It can’t be done!”
“Sure it can—if you lead the train,” Sam responded simply.
“Me?” At first Sky thought he had misunderstood, but a look around the table told him he had not. “Why, you’re all crazy!”
“You could do it, Sky,” Travers told him confidently, his dark eyes alive with interest. “You’ve got your furs in for the winter, and you know the country better than any man alive, I suppose. And it would be to your advantage to have Oregon City become a more civilized place. You have a son who needs such things.” He paused and suggested tentatively, “You might even find yourself a wife back East, Sky.”
Everyone saw immediately that Travers had gone too far. Sam said, “Well, that’s it. Think about it, Sky.”
Sky got up. “It’s not for me,” he replied evenly and left the room.
“You shouldn’t have said anything about his getting a wife, Henry,” Clay said as soon as Sky was gone. “You know he hates women.”
“Guess I did make a mess of it,” Sellers admitted ruefully. “Well, he’ll not do it now—but I don’t think he would have gone anyway. Looks like it’s all off, Sam. I wouldn’t put money into a thing like this unless we had Sky.”
“I’ll talk to him, Henry,” Sam said. “Maybe I can change his mind.”
“Nobody else ever did,” Clay shrugged.
Nobody knew better than Birdwell what a stubborn streak ran in Sky Winslow, so Sam said nothing for two days. Even then, it was Sky himself who mentioned it first. They were at Sam’s warehouse grading Sky’s furs when Sky brought it up. “I’m surprised at you, Sam. Thought you’d be at me to go bring those women here from the east.”
Sam paused, stroked a beautiful black fox pelt. “Knew you wouldn’t be pushed, Sky.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it, Sam—and I’ve decided to do it.”
“You have!” Sam exclaimed, tossing the fur aside and beating Sky on the back. “Well, thank God for that! It’ll work, Sky, I’m tellin’ you it’ll work!”
Sky grinned at him, then sobered. “Well, I’ve got my own reasons for going, Sam. Not a wife, either.”
“What you got in mind, Sky?”
“Some kind of housekeeper. A woman who can teach Joe and bring a little order into my house.”
“You’d have to marry her, Sky,” Sam commented. “Otherwise she’d have a bad name.”
“I’ve been thinking of a way. What if I built her a little house, and she lived in it and just did my housekeeping and taught Joe? I mean an older woman, like.”
Sam considered it skeptically. “It might work, Sky—but she’d better be old and ugly, or some woman-hungry logger will run off with her.”
“Don’t worry—I’ll take care of that!”
Sam ducked his head and shuffled his feet. “Say, Sky . . . now that you’re going . . . can I ask you to do something for me?”
“Name it, Sam.” He put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulders. “Listen, I’ve not forgotten how you stood by me when Irene left. Don’t think Joe and I would have made it if you hadn’t been there. Just tell me—what is it?”
“Well, I want you to find me a wife.”
“You, Sam?” Sky stared at his friend in surprise. “Why, you could get any woman you wanted. You’re still young enough, and you’ve got money—”
“It’s just that—well, I’ve never been any good around women, Sky.” Sam Birdwell looked at Sky painfully. “I’ve been turned down, see, more than once, so I’d just decided to give up the idea. But I’d give anything to have a home—and a boy, maybe, like Joe!” He paused and added, “She don’t have to be a handsome woman, Sky. I don’t care how plain she is! But I’d make a good husband for some woman—once I had her. It’s just the courtin’ and the askin’ part that I can’t face up to.”
“Why, of course I’ll do it, Sam!” Sky said. He looked down at the smaller man and assured him.
“Sam, you’ll get the pick of the litter!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE APPLICANTS
“Wonder what those dogs are barking at?!”
Christmas Winslow looked up at his wife from the table where he sat reading a worn Bible by the pale light of a lamp. He listened carefully, then got up. “Dunno, Missy. Might be something after the stock. Maybe I better go take a look.”
He reached for his coat that hung from a peg in the wall as a loud knock sounded on the door. Twenty-six years of mission work had not tempered the watchful habits he’d learned as a mountain man—which was understandable; for those years had been spent right in the middle of the Sioux nation, where life was cheap. Smoothly, he pulled his Hawken from the wall, cocked it, and stepped to the side of the door. Motioning the woman to stand away from the door, he jerked it open with the rifle held steady in his right hand.
“Well—you gonna shoot me, Pa?”
Christmas yelled and with his free arm grabbed the figure that stepped through the door. He was a huge man, six feet three inches, and his grip at the age of sixty was still like a bear trap. “Sky! Look here, Missy!” He stepped back and replaced the rifle on its pegs as Missy came quickly across the room and took Sky’s embrace. She was almost as tall as Sky himself.
“You rascal!” she chided with mock severity, “I ought to take a switch to you!” She bit her lips as tears came into her eyes, then put her arms around him again and held him close, unable to speak.
“Aw, Ma, don’t take on,” Sky said. She was really his stepmother, but Missy had been the best friend that his own mother, White Dove, had ever known. When the Indian woman died, Missy had promised to care for Dove’s eleven-year-old son. Holding her now, Sky was grateful for the times in his c
hildhood when this woman had loved him, nursed him, and disciplined him as if he were her own. He looked at his father, who was watching them with a smile.
“Well, for cryin’ out loud, Missy, don’t smother the boy!” Christmas reached out, pulled Sky’s hat off and tossed it on a peg. “Get out of that wet coat, Sky, and set. Missy, it ain’t too late to eat again.”
Missy Winslow brushed her hand across her eyes, laughing. “I’ll fry up some steaks from that doe while you two talk—but I don’t want to miss anything, so you talk up loud, Sky!”
She busied herself with the food, pausing from time to time to look at the two men who sat at the table. Soon the tantalizing odor of fried steak filled the room, and the two listened avidly as Sky told them about Joe. It had been five years since they’d seen either Sky or his boy—from the time their son left with his family for Oregon; and they devoured him with their eyes. When Missy put the food on the table and sat down, Christmas glanced at Sky and bowed his head. “Lord, we’re thankful for this food, for it comes as your gift. I’m grateful for your mercies on Sky and Joey. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Sky smiled broadly at the old memories this scene brought back. “You still don’t waste much time blessin’ the food, do you, Pa?” That had always been his father’s way—short blessings and long sermons. He chewed hungrily on the rich meat, then said slowly, “I’ve missed your preaching.”
Chris looked across the table and smiled. “Well, you’ll get a double dose day after tomorrow. Still just about the same, Sky—turn or burn.”
Sky swallowed another bite of the steak before he answered his father. “Nothing I’d like better, Pa—but I can’t stay past that. Got to be in New York by March fifteenth.”
“Why, you can’t do that!” Christmas protested. “You’ve been gone five years—and now you blow in and stay for two measly days? Why, that’s downright uncivil!”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 8