There were two Morton families. Well, three. Ezekial and his wife, Eliza, had two grown daughters who were also traveling with them. Electa was single and twenty-seven. Europa was thirty, and was now Mrs. Milton Griggs—and Milton was a blacksmith and a wheelwright. They used up two wagons between them.
The other part of the Morton family was elderly Zachary Morton, a gunsmith, and his wife, Suzannah. They had no children, at least with them, and Jedediah had at first thought that they were too old to make the trip. However, the Reverend Milcher had managed to convince him otherwise. And Zachary looked fit for his age. He sat at the far end of the table, glowering from beneath his gray and beetling brows while he fiddled with his pipe.
Next came Salmon Kendall and his wife, Cordelia. They hailed from Massachusetts, and were farmers. While Salmon had no special skills or merchandise upon which the train could count, he looked to have a strong back and a solid purpose. They had two children: Salmon Jr., called Sammy, twelve, and Peony, called for some inexplicable reason Piny, aged ten.
The Milchers themselves, he supposed, offered spiritual aid. The reverend and his wife, Lavinia, had seven kids ranging from five to fifteen. The wife seemed to have a bit of a harpy’s tongue, but he supposed all those children would keep her busy. At least, he hoped so.
Altogether, the five families (counting all the Mortons as one) accounted for eight long- and short-bed Conestoga wagons; nine saddle horses and four breeding stock; a couple dozen cattle, assorted hogs, goats, two dogs, and a cat named Chuckles, which belonged to the Milchers.
It was a fine start.
“Well?” said the Reverend Milcher.
“Six or eight additional wagons, anyway,” replied Jedediah thoughtfully. He really wanted at least twenty in the group. To take fewer could be foolhardy. They had plenty of hostile territory to traverse.
Eliza Morton looked crestfallen. “Where on earth can we find as many as we already are, Ezekial?”
Ezekial put an arm around his wife, comforting her. “I shouldn’t think it will be too difficult, Eliza,” he muttered. “After all, ain’t Kansas City the great jumpin’-off place, darlin’?”
* * *
Over the next few weeks, the wagon train grew and grew. Jedediah found a group of six wagons to join up, and the Reverend Milcher found two, then five, then seven. Milcher’s were mostly farmers, but within the ranks of Jedediah’s recruits were some folks he considered quite useful.
Michael Morelli was a country doctor. Well, not the go-to-school kind, but he was close enough. He, his wife Olympia, and their young son Constantine and younger daughter Helen would journey complete with a traveling surgery—something that Jedediah knew, from hard experience, would come in handy.
In addition, he picked up Saul and Rachael Cohen, and their boys David, Jacob, and Abraham. The Cohens were Jews and he expected some trouble from the Reverend Milcher along the line, but he figured he’d put up with it. The Cohens planned to open a store once they got to California, and brought two wagons to the mix, one of which would be filled to the brim with stock for their new mercantile.
True, the Nordstroms were well stocked, too, but most of their stuff was yard goods and notions and the like, while the Cohens carried hardware and hand tools. If forced to choose, Jedediah would have rather had the Cohens along any day of the week.
The rest of his recruits were farmers or potential ranchers, although Seth Wheeler had done some smithing in his time, or so he said.
The best he could say for Milcher’s new folks was that one of the women had been a nurse during the War.
But still, he was glad for the bodies and the wagons. He thought they had enough, now.
Arrangements were made, money changed hands, wagons were packed and repacked and loaded, and spirits were high. Always best to start off that way, Jedediah thought. The reality of the trip would take the wind out of their sails, but at least they were inflated with bright and airy hopes to start with.
That way, they had a lot farther to fall before they hit bottom.
As for himself, well, Jason was going with him, and Jenny was staying behind with Tom and Sally Norton, their neighbors, until he got back next year. Jedediah had arranged it all.
But Jenny wasn’t having it, drat her. Right this minute, she stood before him in the front hall, her arms crossed over her chest—just like her mama—and a frown on her face.
“But I want to come!” she said for probably the fourth time. “I am coming!”
Jedediah let out a long sigh. “Jenny, I’ll have no more of this. I told you, you’re only fifteen and it’s a long, hard trip.”
“I know how old I am, Papa, and I know it’s hard. But the boys got to go when they were only twelve!”
Jedediah opened his mouth, but she jumped back in right away.
“And don’t say that they were boys!” she finished.
“Honey,” Jedediah began in a measured tone, “they were boys. It makes a difference. You’re just a young thing, learning to cook and bake and sew like your mama. Someday, you’ll want to keep house for your man, and you’ll want to keep it in a civilized place, not out on the wild prairie. Boys don’t grow on trees out there.”
She took a deep breath and looked up at him through lush, golden lashes, a glower on her pretty face. When her mama had worn that look, Jedediah knew that he was in trouble.
“Papa, I’ll be safe. After all, you and Jason will be there. Why, I could get shot by a bandit or kidnapped into a house of degradation right here in Kansas City!”
She smiled a tad when she said that last bit. Her mama would have, too.
He shook his head. “What about school?” he asked, even though he knew full well that Electa Morton intended to teach school on the trip west. He just hoped that Jenny didn’t remember it.
But she did.
“Oh, radishes, Papa! I spoke with Miss Morton, and she says I can help her. I’ve already got my eighth-grade certification, as if you didn’t know.”
She had been at him so much lately that he knew he was beaten. Or would be, very shortly.
He gave in to gravity.
“All right, Jenny,” he said, shaking his head. “You wore me down.” She squealed and literally gave a leap up into the air while he added, “You can go along, I reckon, but you’ll have to do your share, just like anybody else. You’ll walk behind the wagon, do the cooking, and help with the livestock. You’ll have to learn to reload in case there’s trouble, you know.”
“I’d rather you taught me how to shoot.”
He slapped his hat on his head. “Don’t press your luck, daughter,” he said, and walked around her, to the front door.
* * *
Jedediah rode the half mile down to the Reverend Milcher’s current place of residence—the double lot behind Barker’s laundry—on his old blue roan saddle horse, Gumption. Milcher and several of his group had set up temporary camp there, and Barker was charging them a pretty penny for the pleasure.
Milcher saw him coming, and lifted a hand.
“Hail, Brother Fury!” he cried.
The greeting annoyed Jedediah a bit, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “Morning, Milcher,” he called. “How are you folks coming along? Ready to go in the morning?”
As Fury dismounted, Milcher walked out to meet him. “Indeed, indeed,” the reverend said, nodding his head. “We could leave this evening, if you desire.”
“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Jedediah cast a gaze toward the corral, where there stood a number of milk cows, horses, oxen, and goats. He noticed the absence of Hamish MacDonald’s livestock, though, and mentioned it.
“Oh, he’s moved them out to graze. Somewhere north of town.” Milcher sniffed, as if he didn’t approve of such consideration being paid to one’s livestock. “They’ll be back in time, though.” He checked his watch. “I hope.”
“Those cows of yours could use a little grass,” Jedediah said softly. They were fair ribby and dull-ey
ed. “They’ll get some starting tomorrow, though.”
“My opinion exactly!” Milcher said, loud enough that a woman walking down the opposite side of the road heard him and stopped to stare.
Jedediah ignored Milcher’s overeagerness and asked, “Where’s Jason? I don’t see him.” Indeed, all he saw were people packing wagons and fiddling with livestock, and children playing in the spaces between the wagons.
“He went to load the water barrel wagon. He and Matt MacDonald. And Milton Griggs.” Milcher pointed down the street.
Matt MacDonald? Ever since the day that Milcher had showed up on the Fury doorstep, Jason and Matt had been avoiding each other like a case of the smallpox. He hoped they were mending their fences.
“Well, then,” Jedediah said, just as he noticed a stack of crates sitting beside Milcher’s wagon. “Let me help with those crates, Milcher.”
“Be obliged, Brother Fury.”
Jedediah wouldn’t stay long, though. He had his own Conestoga to pack yet again, now that Jenny was going along on the trek.
Dad blast it, anyway!
Chapter 3
Jason sat his mare on the far bank of the Missouri, mopping his brow. Who would have thought it would take this long to get them all across? But only two of the ferries were operational, the cattle had decided to go downstream a mile before crossing all the way over, and the Milchers’ cat had developed a sudden urge to go swimming.
He thought one of their kids had likely tossed the cat over the side, but he kept his peace and fished the poor thing out of the drink. He’d like to get his hands on that kid, though.
The cattle had been brought back upstream by his father’s three hired men—Milt Billings, who Jason was surprised his father had hired, because Jason didn’t trust him any farther than he could throw him; Gil Collins, who at twenty-four was the youngest of the three, and something of a cipher; and Ward Wanamaker. Jason liked Ward. He was good with livestock, good with people, and seemed to be looking forward to the journey.
The men were holding the cattle in a tight group about a hundred yards from where Jason sat his palomino, watching the final wagon roll off the ferry. Later on, the three would serve as jacks-of-all-trades, everything from Indian fighters to roustabouts to baby-walkers.
Farther out ahead, his father was lining up the rest of the wagons, making sure everybody had made it across the river high and dry. Jason doubted the Milchers’ cat was faring as well as the rest of the Milchers.
He looked for Jenny, too, and spied her, the third wagon from the front, high on the driver’s bench of the family Conestoga. He couldn’t help but quirk his mouth up into a smile. He’d bet she hadn’t figured on driving a six-in-hand when she’d begged her way into this.
Well, she’d be walking soon enough. His father had brought along extra trade goods this time, and all those mirrors and blankets and geegaws weighed as much as two fat steers, and that was in addition to their personal things. He’d also brought extra ammunition in a wagon currently driven by Tommy Milcher, and another filled with extra water for the livestock. Ward Wanamaker had left the livestock and was presently taking the ferry back to drive it over. Jenny’d have to get out and lead their team sooner or later. His father would insist.
On the road west, horses and oxen were more important than people. Unless you were starving to death.
And even then, it was iffy.
He’d noticed that the Reverend Milcher, in addition to all those kids, had brought along a piano. Probably to accompany all the hymns he’d be leading in that new church he planned to build. Jason figured that piano would probably end up somewhere beside the trail about halfway into the Indian Territory. As would the Nordstroms’ big old breakfront, and Milton Griggs’s anvil.
People brought the craziest things along.
He heard his father’s familiar whistle, and reined his horse around, while taking a last, longing look at the eastern horizon. Good-bye to college, good fellowship, and good things. Hello tumbleweeds and wild country and sudden death.
Well, his path was set now, in the hot, dry caliche and baking sun of the land to come. He’d just have to live with it.
He gave the men a friendly wave to move up the herd, then goosed his horse into a slow lope and caught up with the plodding wagons up front.
* * *
Ten miles from the Missouri, and Lavinia was already having second thoughts about that piano. Louis had purchased it, secondhand, in Missouri, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Music to bring the godless back to the fold, silky songs of praise to unite the congregation into one big family.
But it weighed too much. It took up the room where three of their children could have slept, and Lavinia had left behind one hundred pounds of flour and another fifty of cornmeal to make room.
She was happy to defer to her lord and master, but not when he was being an idiot. And only an idiot would cast her children outside, to sleep beneath the wagon with the snakes. It was bad enough that they had to walk behind or alongside the wagon, that they’d have to stay there for what—fifteen hundred miles? Two thousand? They had been mad to give in to Louis’s wanderlust, mad to leave their comfortable farm and their rightful place in society.
Louis had insisted there was more, though. Greener pastures, he’d said. If only his greener pastures weren’t so very far away!
And now here she was, only ten miles into the wilderness, with stinging feet and throbbing thighs and aching calves and ankles swollen like the fabled elephants. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, and she could only imagine what her children were feeling.
At least Seth, at twelve, had been deemed mature enough and lightweight enough to do the driving. Her littlest, Hope, rode beside him on the bench, and her next-to-youngest, Charity, clung to her hand and bravely tried to keep up, although Lavinia carried her half the time.
Young Thomas drove one of the communal wagons for Mr. Fury, but the rest of the children walked.
She felt a rivulet of sweat make its way down her back, underneath the stays of her corset. Perhaps Suzannah Morton had been right. This was no place for the niceties of society.
And it was no place for these shoes. The blisters rising on her heels, she stopped, putting Charity on the ground beside her. Charity didn’t understand, and held up her arms with a pleading look.
Lavinia shook her head. “Mother’s feet are sore, darling. She can’t carry you any longer until they’re bandaged. Run and ask your brother to let you ride on the wagon with Hope.”
The little girl’s pretty face lit up. “Yes, Mother,” she said, and scampered off ahead.
Lavinia stood exactly where she had stopped for some time, letting wagon after wagon pass her, group after group of walking women and children, until the Morellis’ wagon came into view. She didn’t know the Morellis very well, since they were Catholic and her husband frowned on papists, but she knew that he was a doctor, and that was what she needed.
She waved at him, up there in the driver’s seat, and called out, “Dr. Morelli? Dr. Morelli, I have a medical problem!”
He slowed the wagon, then pulled out of line and stopped completely. “Mrs. Milcher?” he asked, cocking a brow. He slid down to the ground and approached her. “What seems to be the problem?”
Suddenly, she was embarrassed. What if her husband should find out she’d gone to a papist for help? He’d be angry sure enough, but still, she didn’t feel she could walk another step without some sort of aid.
“My feet,” she said, pointing to the ground.
He slipped an arm around her and helped her hobble to his wagon. “Those are no shoes for walking, Mrs. Milcher,” he muttered. “Does one of your boys have a spare pair of boots?”
Horrified at the suggestion, she gulped and said, “Boots?”
“Yes, good, sturdy, roomy boots.” Dr. Morelli was already at work with the button hook. What he produced when he pulled off her shoe shocked her. She had thought she was blistered only on her heels, for
they hurt the worst, but instead, her foot was a mass of blisters, bruises, and contusions.
Morelli clucked as he removed the other shoe. He looked up and gave her a stern frown. “Women,” he said. “You lame yourself for fashion.”
Then he handed over her shoes and got to work with antiseptic and bandages. When he was finished, he lifted her up onto the wagon’s tailgate and said, “Stay put, you hear? I don’t want you on your feet for at least two days. I’ll drive you up to your own rig.”
Cowed and embarrassed, Lavinia Milcher simply nodded.
* * *
When they circled the wagons late that afternoon, Lavinia Milcher wasn’t the only walking wounded. Three other women and girls had so damaged their feet that they’d have to ride for the next few days. Young Jacob Cohen had made the mistake of trying to play with the Milcher kids, and had taken a beating for his trouble to their gleeful cries of “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!”
Jason, torn between drowning the lot of the Milcher kids or just poleaxing their father, had settled for hollering at them, then hoisting the battered and weeping eight-year-old Jacob up into his saddle and taking him to his mother.
Fortunately, they were traveling right in front of Doc Morelli’s wagon, and Mrs. Cohen whisked the boy back to the doctor before Jason had a chance to apologize for those idiot Milchers. She abandoned her wagon entirely, and Jason had to take over the driving for about a half hour.
He honestly didn’t know how anybody could take sitting on those damned seats all day! By the time she got back, with a bandaged Jacob in tow, Jason’s backside had bruises on its bruises. He was glad to turn the rig over and get back up on Cleo again. After that torturous ride, the palomino’s smooth gait seemed like heaven.
By the time everybody was in place and the wagons were circled for the night, the sun had slipped beneath the horizon. Men turned to stripping the harness off their horses and oxen, and the woman started to fix dinner. Jason had a few words with his father, telling him of the Cohen/Milcher battle.
A Town Called Fury Page 2