CHAPTER 5
The twelve best horses
April 6, 1866
Dearest Mimi,
We arrived safely in Independence three days ago and already have much to tell.
First, it’s clear I should have married a riverboat captain. The wife of ours was a lovely creature who sent us to Mrs. Helton’s boardinghouse. Mrs. Helton, in turn, sent me to George Dotson, a retired Union colonel she claims is the finest man traveling the Oregon “this season or any other.”
I shudder to think how I would have floundered—both here and all my life—without the wisdom and generosity of other women, you foremost among them.
Daddy will have gotten my letter by now. Look after him for me, as much as you can tolerate.
Now that Abigail had settled on Colonel Dotson’s train, there was no time to waste as they finished preparations. The children were full of questions—all but Corrine. “I wish I’d stayed with Thad and Sue Anne.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that, Corrine.” Charlie was wrestling Rascal on the floor. “You would have ended up playing nursemaid.”
Abigail’s older brother and his wife had a new baby, born after the war.
Abigail folded her letter to Mimi. “Corrine, you’ll have a much better trip if you decide now to embrace this experience.”
“The colonel served the Union?” asked Charlie.
“Yes.”
“So did he—”
“No. He didn’t know your father.” It was the first question Abigail had asked Dotson when they went inside Granberry’s.
“Corrine.” Lina took her older sister by the hand. “Aren’t you excited about living in a covered wagon and seeing the mountains? What if we see a moose?” She giggled. “I bet they are this big.” Climbing on a chair, Lina reached her hands as high as they would go.
“And buffalo!” said Jacob. “They’re the biggest of all and I’m going to shoot me one with Pa’s rifle.”
“No shooting while we’re gone.” Abigail put on her hat. “Lina, step down, sweetheart.”
Charlie hopped up and swung Lina off the chair.
“Charlie and I are going to the post office, then to buy the wagons and horses.” Abigail handed Corrine a list. “You’re in charge, Corrine. Check over this supply list and see if I’ve left anything out. Jacob, take Rascal out every hour, on the hour.” She handed him her watch chain.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Jacob. Don’t forget.”
Jacob looked at his brother and sisters defensively. “I won’t forget.”
“You’ll clean it up this time, if you do,” mumbled Corrine.
Charlie and Abigail went to the wagon maker’s first.
“You don’t want Conestogas,” he said. “They’re too bulky and hard to turn. And they’ll kill your animals before you get there ’cause the load’s too heavy for ’em all that distance.”
This threw off Abigail’s careful planning. She’d been counting on more space. But on the wagon maker’s suggestion, she bought two lighter spring wagons instead—schooners, he called them—with smaller wheels in front for better turning.
“I’d advise you to get oxen or mules, too. Colonel Dotson said you were thinking about horses, but horses don’t do well for the long haul.”
“So everybody tells me.” She was going to look like a fool when she went to see Hoke saying she had changed her mind about the horses.
As Abigail hoisted herself up and looked inside what was to be their home for the next several months, a shiver ran up her spine.
Someone was watching them.
She peered up and down the street but didn’t see anyone. Was she just feeling paranoid after that run-in with Percy yesterday?
“This isn’t a lot of room,” said Charlie, scrunching in beside her. The schooners were only half as long as Conestogas and only four feet wide. She and Charlie couldn’t even stand up straight inside. “Two of these wagons put together is less space than we have in Mrs. Helton’s room.”
With their trunks, that room was overflowing. They exchanged looks. The Baldwyns would need to prune through their belongings again.
Abigail snapped her fingers as they left the wagon maker’s. “We can use burlap sacks and attach them to the inside walls. Corrine and I can make cloth sacks for our clothes, too. Let’s run over to the mercantile and see if they’ll buy our heavy trunks.”
The owner agreed to give her several bolts of fabric and trim in exchange for the trunks. As they were leaving the mercantile, Abigail once again would have sworn someone was watching her.
From the doorway she looked up and down the street but again saw no one.
As she turned to say good-bye to the owner she spotted a high-backed rocking chair with a torn seat sitting in the corner of the store.
“That’s not new; it was actually my mother’s,” explained the owner.
“I’ll take it if you’ll sell it.” Lina still liked to be rocked.
The owner said he could whitewash it, so Abigail arranged to pick it up on Monday, making a mental note to get enough twine when she came back to repair the seat.
Next she bought two feather beds, and bedrolls for the boys to sleep in under the wagon. Jacob had proclaimed, “Me and Charlie can’t sleep in the wagon, Ma. Men sleep on the ground.” She’d resisted the temptation to remind him that he was nine.
Instead of buying a table and chairs, she had a carpenter fashion sawhorses—tall ones for a table and shorter ones for benches. Then she went back to the wagon maker to have him add iron rings under both wagons to which she could tie ropes and slide long wood planks through. She would use them for tabletops.
When they passed Granberry’s Café Abigail noticed a small garden in the back. On a whim, she went in and asked Mrs. Granberry about her vegetables. Then she hurried back to the wagon maker a third time to see if he could build side boxes on her wagons.
“What for?” he asked.
“An experiment.”
“I need to know what they’re goin’ to hold so I know how strong to anchor ’em.”
“Strong enough to hold about ten inches of dirt.” People sometimes used wooden boxes for growing things. Even Thomas Jefferson had used container boxes in his massive gardens in Virginia. Why not a floating vegetable garden for her?
When Abigail and Charlie left the wagon maker’s this time, they turned west toward the livery stables.
Hoke was talking to two burly, bearded men when he saw Abigail and a boy approach. His gaze fastened on her from under the brim of his once-black hat, but he made no move to greet her.
When a dog ran out from the stable growling at the boy, Hoke instinctively started toward them but before he could take two steps the woman deflected it with the side of her foot, redirecting the cur like a rolling tumbleweed.
The dog ran on several yards before stopping to look back, as if he couldn’t remember his original purpose.
Hoke smiled down at his boots as Abigail pointed the boy toward the nearby corral. When the men left, he joined them at the fence. He chewed on the soft end of a hickory stick, liking the taste of it in his mouth. “You picked out the best twelve yet?”
“Mr. Hoke, this is my son Charlie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Charlie. And you can drop the Mr. Just call me Hoke.”
“Mr. Hoke,” said Abigail to Charlie. “I’m raising a gentleman, Mr. Hoke. It’s his habit to address superiors this way.”
This woman had a way of saying things to which Hoke could not think of a tart response. He wasn’t glib like James, but neither was he usually tongue-tied. Feeling far from Charlie’s superior, he extended his hand. The boy took it heartily.
Charlie was tall and stately like his mother but with darker blond curls. Same blue eyes . . . different nose and chin.
“Sir,” said Charlie, “you’ve got some fine-looking horses there.” He pointed at the corral. “How many you got altogether?”
“Why, you lookin’ to buy the
whole bunch?”
Charlie laughed. “Oh, no, sir. I was just curious.”
Hoke liked him. Seemed like a good-natured kid. Couldn’t really help who his mother was. He turned his back on Abigail and concentrated on Charlie.
“Which twelve would you pick?”
Charlie pointed out a sorrel, two chestnuts, a quarter horse, and a large black mare. “I like that spotted one, too, but I’m not as familiar with that kind of horse.”
“Those are mustangs—better for speed than pulling. Wild herds in the West attract all kinds. Some of these, like that quarter horse, were once tame and had been ridden, then got loose and joined this group. Others were born in the wild. I think the sorrel wandered up from Mexico. It had a piece of bridle on it with some fancy jangles like Mexicans use. A few of these had war brands. When soldiers and Indian war parties clash, horses without their mounts run off. Sometimes wagon trains are attacked and horses cut loose.”
Charlie looked at his mother. “Now that’s a happy thought.”
“The ones with brands are more compliant,” continued Hoke, turning so he could see Abigail again. “The wild ones are temperamental at first, but they calm down. If you’re putting together a team, you want to consider gender. Geldings and mares work best together. Stallions cause problems. Personally, I prefer to ride a stallion, but he’s willful. He’d fight with any other stallion if he were on a team with it and that’s a waste of precious energy when you’re looking at a two-thousand-mile trek.”
Abigail looked uncomfortable. Hoke wondered if he’d nicked another nerve by turning his back on her.
Abigail’s collar grew warm as she listened to Hoke talk to Charlie about the horses. Her comment the previous day about wanting to approve the selection seemed silly now. Hoke’s intuition had been right—her father raised mostly fine breeds, along with a few plow horses, nearly all of which had been confiscated first by the Confederacy, then the Union. These were western horses and Abigail knew nothing about them.
Hoke looked at Charlie. “Your six are fine selections from what I have here, but I’ve already put the best ones in a separate corral for you. Cleared the brands, rubbed ’em down, even worked ’em together in teams.”
He was looking squarely at Abigail now. “Like I said yesterday, you really need six on each wagon if you’re going to drive the twelve-foots, and I understand that’s what you bought.”
She had only purchased those wagons a few hours ago! “How did you know that?” Was Hoke the one who’d been watching them earlier? No . . . she was certain she would have noticed if it had been him.
“There are few secrets out here, Mrs. Baldwyn.”
His voice was as deep as a rumbling waterfall. He needed a shave . . . a whole bath, really. He smelled like horse sweat—horse sweat with a hint of pine needles and chipped cedar.
Yesterday she had thought his eyes were dark, but today she could see that a gold rim circled each iris. And what eyes! They were unsettling. Not unsettling in the way Percy had made her feel yesterday. This man didn’t make her skin crawl, but his eyes did make her feel sensitive . . . alert . . . because he was so alert.
His eyes ate everything.
What did he mean by “few secrets”? Had he talked with Colonel Dotson? Did he know why she was making this journey?
Abigail forced herself to meet Hoke’s eyes. It wasn’t easy to hold a steady gaze with him. “Do you think I’m making a mistake with horses?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause horses sweat. They’ll dehydrate before you get to Nebraska.”
Abigail looked away. She’d just been thinking he smelled like horse sweat. Had he yanked that thought from her head?
Horses were loyal. That was what she loved about them. Abigail had thought they would be the better investment for the long term.
“What do you recommend instead?”
“For you, mules.”
“Why for me?”
“They’re the most like horses, but stubborn. I’ve got a feeling you can handle stubborn.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it.
Hoke turned to Charlie. “You ever work mules?”
“Yes, sir. A couple times at my granddad’s plantation.”
Hoke looked back at Abigail with his eyebrows raised. “Plantation?”
“I grew up on a plantation,” explained Abigail, feeling defeated because of his “show horse” comment the day before, “and our help used mules to plant corn and tobacco.”
“Your ‘help’?”
“Our slaves. My mother always called them our help. Listen, are you going to be upset with me if I change my mind and decide to use mules instead?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? Because I told you I’d buy twelve horses. If I get mules from someone else, I’ll only be able to afford a couple of your horses. I hate to have misled you on a sale if you were counting on it.”
“I’ve got mules for you.”
“You do?”
“Um-hum. I had a feeling you’d come around, so I went ahead and traded for some mules. Heard you changed your mind on the wagons—and even had some smart ideas on how to prepare your wagons—so I was betting on you wising up to this.”
“But you said you put the twelve best horses in a separate corral for us!”
Hoke grinned and took the hickory stick out of his mouth. “I never said they were horses.”
CHAPTER 6
Twenty-dollar gold pieces
Hoke led Abigail and Charlie around the side of a barn to another corral. Two harnessed teams of mules stood at one end and two horses at the other. All of them were big, strong beauties. Neither Abigail nor Charlie was going to argue about the selection.
Reaching for the muzzle of a large gray dun, Abigail ran her hand over it, then looked at his teeth. He was young and healthy.
Stooping down, she eased herself through the fence railing so she could feel his back flank and lift his foot. His hooves were filed and clean, his coat brushed and gleaming. These animals showed every sign of being cared for—excellently cared for. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a sugar cube, holding it out for the dun.
Hoke leaned on the railing. “I see you came prepared to make friends with my horses.”
“Just the ones that are soon to be my horses.” Abigail smiled broadly, then scowled. “But now I wonder if I can afford them.”
“How much were you expectin’ to pay?”
Abigail leaned her back to the railing so she could look at what she was buying. These mules put Arlon’s Bess to shame. Their long ears flicked at gnats and the sound of Hoke’s voice—a voice they apparently found comforting, given the way they kept watching him and gravitating toward him. Her brother Seth used to have that effect on animals . . . Seth used to smell like horse sweat, too.
“During the war, the price of a good horse rose to over a hundred dollars. But they’re only about half that now, right? I know oxen are cheaper and less expensive to feed, but I don’t know anything about oxen.” Craning her head back, she asked, “What about mules? Is their cost comparable with horses?”
“The price of anything, mules and horses included, is what the buyer and seller agree on,” he said softly. “Tell me what you were expectin’ to pay, and I’ll tell you if I can live with it.”
Abigail swung her head over to Charlie. She had expected Hoke to name his price. Was it foolish to tell him how much she had to spend? Would he take advantage of her because she was a woman and he wouldn’t expect her to have any sense?
On Charlie’s nod she looked back to Hoke. “I was hoping to get twelve good horses for six hundred. This is twelve mules plus two horses, and honestly, their quality is better than I had anticipated. I’m sure you can get a lot more than six hundred dollars for what’s standing in this corral.”
“I can.” Hoke nodded. “But what’s standin’ in this corral hasn’t cost me six hundred, so I’d come out ahead.�
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Hoke wondered if Abigail Baldwyn knew how lovely she was, and whether she was in the habit of batting those heavy-lashed eyes at men in the hope they would work something out for her. That McConnelly woman’s voice yesterday had been laced with mockery. Were you coming to my rescue?
There was no question that Irene McConnelly used her looks for gain. Was this Baldwyn woman doing the same? And if she had a husband, why wasn’t he making this horse deal?
Hoke couldn’t really lose. He had traded horses for the mules, and the horses had been waiting for him in a little valley northwest of Washita, but . . . damn if he could think straight.
“I wouldn’t feel right giving you less than seven,” said Abigail. “And I’d still feel beholden to you.”
Hoke looked down at the ground. “Charlie, does your mother have a surplus of money she’s tryin’ to get rid of?”
Charlie laughed. “No, sir. But you know she’s right about the value of these mules and horses. You’re still selling low to us at seven.”
Hoke looked back up at Abigail. “Would you feel better payin’ eight?”
She grinned. “I can live with seven if you can.”
He moved to open the gate for her, but she slipped back through the fence railing before he could get to it. Hoke prided himself on his ability to get in the heads of most creatures, but women . . . women were a mystery. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything like peace around one.
“I’ll bring ’em to you Monday at the jumping-off spot.”
She laid a blue crocheted bag, heavy with twenty-dollar gold pieces, in his hand. He followed her eyes as they etched the outlines of his fingers.
They walked past the open door of the barn. Abigail stopped and pointed. “Whose horses are those?”
“Those aren’t for sale. They’re mine.”
“Do you mind if I look?” She walked toward the black stallion in one stall, then the white filly in the other. “She’s beautiful,” crooned Abigail, stroking the filly’s nose.
Hoke would have been irritated had he not liked watching her. Charlie showed respect for his mother, which told Hoke the husband had respected her, too.
Leaving Independence Page 5