THE OPEN ROAD
THE OPEN ROAD
M. M. HOLADAY
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2017 by M.M. Holaday
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Holaday, M. M., author.
Title: The open road / M. M. Holaday.
Description: Waterville, Maine : Five Star Publishing, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016041921 (print) | LCCN 2016059534 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432833947 (hardback) | ISBN 1432833944 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781432837037 (ebook) | ISBN 1432837036 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432833916 (ebook) | ISBN 143283391X (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3391-6 eISBN-10: 1-43283391-X
Subjects: LCSH: Male friendship—Fiction. | Horsemen and horsewomen—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | Whites—Relations with Indians—Fiction. | Frontier and pioneer life—Fiction. | Colorado—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Sagas. | GSAFD: Western stories.
Classification: LCC PS3608.O48286 O64 2017 (print) | LCC PS3608.O48286 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016041921
First Edition. First Printing: April 2017
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3391-6 ISBN-10: 1-43283391-X
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Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/
Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 21 20 19 18 17
For
Jeff
Eric
Reid
Kathryn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank friends and family who offered encouragement to me repeatedly throughout this project. I am grateful to all of you. I would like to acknowledge a few people by name: my sister, Bek, who read my earliest draft while on our own open-road adventure; Pamela Winnick, for guidance early on; Kathie Johnston, for continuous wise counsel; Susan Uttendorfsky for first-rate copyediting; Andrew Lockhart and Marsha Hayles for insightful advice; Beth Plunkett and Mary Kay Wolfe for astute feedback; and the excellent editors at Five Star.
Finally, thank you to my husband, Jeff, and our children, Eric, Reid, and Kathryn, for bringing such joy to my life by just being you.
CHAPTER ONE: WINSTON AVERY
Missouri River Landing, Council Bluffs, Iowa, Spring 1865
Winston Avery stepped off the steamboat onto a crowded pier. Passengers waiting to board moved aside to let him pass and then jostled back for a place in line, nudging against him like nervous ponies in a corral. Win elbowed his way through the acrid smell of too much humanity and headed for shore, carrying his saddle in front of him. Surely he’d knock someone into the water if he tried to hoist it onto his shoulder.
General Lee had just surrendered at Appomattox, yet it seemed the nation had already turned its attention to the West. The war had delayed the audacious idea of a transcontinental railroad, but now steamboats chugged upriver to the Omaha Landing, loaded with ex-soldiers newly employed by the Union Pacific Railroad. The soldiers who remained in military service gathered in units awaiting orders to fight an old, persistent enemy on the Great Plains. Prairie schooners congregated on either side of the Missouri River, filled with families, or fortune hunters who had heard about gold in Montana. A fellow passenger aboard the sidewheeler that brought Win east from Dakota Territory predicted that the frontier would be settled in his lifetime. The assessment troubled Win. He imagined masses of people trampling across the unspoiled prairie the way schoolboys head for freshly fallen snow, each racing to be the first to make his mark on it.
He could hardly blame those drawn to the West. Even now, the wind whispered in his ear, blocking out the noise and beckoning him back from where he’d just come. He gazed at the western horizon, the line where sky and land meet seducing him for a moment. He suppressed the impulse and instead headed up the street, wondering how he’d manage the final leg of his journey. His return home to visit the Dawsons was long overdue.
A row of storefronts stood where a grove of gnarled, old oaks once shaded a sleepy river landing with a decent fishing spot. Win caught a glimpse of his sand-colored reflection in a dry-goods shop window. Windblown grit from the Sandhills coated him, but Mrs. Dawson wouldn’t mind. His best friend’s mother would stand in the doorway and smile broadly, ignoring the dirt as she welcomed him with open arms. Still, he tried to brush the dust from the parts of him he could reach.
Most of the businesses catered to settlers trekking west, but, at the doctor’s office, an empty buckboard stood out from the schooners equipped for overland travel. Hank Brady, Win’s long-time neighbor, emerged from the office with a package and climbed wearily into his seat.
“Mr. Brady! It’s Win Avery. How are you?”
The farmer squinted. “Win? By golly, didn’t recognize you. It’s been years.”
“Four. You headed home? I could use a lift to the crossroads.”
“Throw your saddle in the back.”
Once Win settled in, Mr. Brady whistled to his mules. “You been fightin’ Johnny Reb?” he asked.
“No, sir. It’s good to hear it’s over, though.”
“Lee surrendered. The Union’s preserved.” Brady sighed with satisfaction, as though he’d won the war himself. “Where’ve you been all these years?”
“West.”
“By golly, the frontier stirs the soul, don’t it? We’re living in a young time, Win, if time can be seen as such. Oh, I know the world is old and full of people of all different ages, but there are times when the circumstances suit a particular type of man, and this is a time for young men. There’s plenty of opportunity for a healthy young feller to build a new life. If I weren’t so old and Mrs. Brady wasn’t ailin’ . . . Well, our time for that kind of adventure has come and gone. Our biggest dream now is to see our Tom come walking down the road.” Mr. Brady’s voice cracked with emotion. He cleared his throat.
“Have you heard from him?” Win had seen a dozen Union soldiers lined up at the river’s edge, staring vacantly ahead as they awaited transport. Several had a white bandage at the tip of a missing appendage flagging their incompleteness.
“Yep, he’s ok. On his way home, thank God. We got word the same day the Dawsons were killed. Mary and I were as high and as low as a person can be, all at the same time.” Mr. Brady glanced at Win. “Aw . . . you didn’t know? I thought that’s why you came home. I’m sorry, son.”
“No . . .” Win felt stabbed in the heart.
“Jeb was away at school. Got back yesterday for the funeral,” Mr. Brady said.
Win shut his eyes, a futile attempt to keep the truth from arriving faster than he could accept it. Images of Sarah Dawson smiling as she worked around the house tumbled thro
ugh his mind.
“I didn’t know they were—” Win stopped. “What happened?”
“There’s no way to know for sure, but from the way the bodies were found, the sheriff thinks Frank Taylor showed up at the doc’s office, wounded from a knife fight. Doc and the missus were tending to him when that hothead, Henry Davis, burst in looking for him. Taylor pulled his gun and tried to use Miz Dawson as a shield. Davis fired at Taylor, hitting Miz Dawson instead. The doc got caught in the crossfire, too.” Brady shook his head.
Win sat in silence, recalling a day Dr. Dawson had dissected a fish Win and Jeb brought home from the river, giving the boys a brief lesson in anatomy. He remembered how expertly Jeb’s father handled the knife and his steady hand.
“Here you go, son.” Brady slowed his team to a stop. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I’d take you all the way to the doc’s, but Mary needs this.” He patted the package next to him.
Win jumped down and lifted his saddle from the wagon. He heard himself say, “It’s real good news about Tom. Please give my best to Mrs. Brady.”
Mr. Brady nodded and turned his team south. Win stared at the wagon as it rolled away, his purpose for coming home gone like the breeze carrying away the dust stirred up by the wheels. It had taken four years for Win to fully appreciate all they had done for him. He’d come back to tell them that.
Win looked west—once again tempted. But Mr. Brady said Jeb was back for the funeral. He wanted to see him. Maybe he could convince Jeb to come with him. Win heaved his saddle onto his shoulder and headed down the road to the Dawson home.
Jeb wasn’t there, but the door was unlocked, so Win let himself in. The house still had the familiar smell of baked bread and coffee, but it lacked the cheerfulness Jeb’s mother brought to it. Win couldn’t remember a time when Mrs. Dawson wasn’t there, in good spirits and busy. He almost called out, hoping she’d answer. He wandered through the rooms in silence.
Win entered the front parlor, his favorite room of the house. Oddly grateful that its contents had been undisturbed, he picked up Mrs. Dawson’s sewing and admired the fine needlework. Bookshelves lined the parlor walls; his heart ached with memories. Mrs. Dawson often read to them at night. Win could read well, but it was more fun to close his eyes and listen to her. She was good at it. She read Walter Scott and Charles Kingsley—adventure stories for boys like you, she’d say. Win wondered if Jeb’s mother had enjoyed the adventure stories as much as they had. Light would dance in her eyes when she read. He and Jeb would drift off to sleep planning high-sea voyages and dreaming of daring sword fights.
There was one book that sparked particular memories. Win scanned the shelves and spotted it—The Last of the Mohicans. The hero of the story, Natty Bumppo, had a magnificent nickname: Hawkeye. Win often daydreamed in school about Hawkeye living in the frontier. The stories stayed with him when he crossed the plains. When his boss on the wagon train, Clint Sanders, told him that he’d befriended an Arapaho, Win imagined the Indian to be like Hawkeye’s friend, Chingach-gook. Win expressed eagerness to meet his own Indian friend and his boss laughed so hard, he broke wind. “As a group, they ain’t to be messed with, kid,” Clint had said, and started calling Win “Mohican.”
Through the parlor window, Win spotted Jeb slip through the row of budding poplars. He must have been at the Blankenships’ neighboring farm. Jeb’s shoulders sagged, sadness strapped to him like sacks of grain on his back.
Jeb had the blue eyes and fair coloring of his mother and his father’s quiet, confident manner. In school, Jeb earned high marks, while Win often fell into mischief. Smarter than his teacher recognized, he bored easily and made trouble. Jeb not only kept Win from falling too far into a mess, he managed to smooth the feathers Win invariably ruffled. He wondered if his friend would hold it against him for being away so long. Jeb did not hold grudges, but anyone could change in four years. When Jeb noticed Win standing at the front door, his face brightened and his shoulders relaxed a bit.
“Win, you are a sight to behold.” Jeb strode toward him, his hand extended, as Win descended from the porch steps. “How’d you hear? I didn’t know where to reach you.”
“I didn’t know ’til just now. Hank Brady told me. I’m sorry, Jeb. I’m real sorry.” They abandoned the handshake and exchanged bear hugs.
Jeb nodded his thanks. “I was in Keokuk myself. Sheriff Baumgartner sent word to the dean at the medical college. He tracked me down.” He sank onto the wide, wooden porch steps and leaned forward on his elbows. “Got here just in time for the funeral.”
Reticent by nature, Jeb never strung too many words together at a time. But by his fourth sentence describing the funeral, as he talked to Win like he’d been gone a week rather than four years, Win felt assured that Jeb harbored no ill will for his long absence. Win pulled a flask out of his saddlebag and handed it to Jeb. He took off his faded trail hat and ran his hand through his long hair to keep it from falling into his eyes as he sat down next to his friend.
“The two men who killed my folks both died, too, so there’s nothing more to be done about it.” Jeb took a swallow of whiskey and passed it back to Win. “No trial, no sentencing. Leaves me unsettled.”
“It isn’t fair at all,” Win said. “Your folks were the best people I’ve ever known. They were always there with open arms . . . helped me through tough times. They were your parents, Jeb, but you know what they meant to me.”
Jeb nodded. “I remember when Ma stood up to that new teacher who called you ‘wild.’ She said a boy who loses a mother to influenza and a father to the bottle ought to be given some leeway. She was in your corner.”
“I tested her patience.”
“Maybe, but she liked you. Ma said your natural charm would get you out of most of the trouble that found you.”
“The lessons I learned from your folks kept me alive and out of jail. I owe them a lot.”
Jeb turned to Win. “Where’d you go? What happened to you?”
Win watched a hawk hang in an air current overhead, a reminder of his own earthbound limitations. Four years earlier, he left Rockfield to join the Pony Express. The company had advertised for good riders, orphans preferred. He considered himself both and signed up. But the Central Overland Express was already on its last legs and folded as soon as telegraph service reached California. That short time racing cross-country ignited a smoldering ember in his belly, however. He told Jeb nothing in his life had been more thrilling, prior to or since. “When my job as a Post rider ended, I sorta wanted to come back, but, at the same time, didn’t want to,” Win said. “I knew I’d be welcome, but drifted instead . . . looking for what, I’m not sure. Maybe I wanted to find something as exciting and as single-minded in purpose . . . Maybe I just didn’t want to come back a failure.” It wasn’t a great explanation, but Jeb had always valued honesty over excuses.
Jeb nodded. It didn’t really matter whether he agreed or was simply acknowledging that he had heard. Win had forgotten how easy it was to be in Jeb’s company.
“I rode for the COE only six months,” Win said. “They went out of business and most of us didn’t get paid, so I was broke. I drifted a bit until I met Clint Sanders, a wagon train captain who escorted settlers across the prairie. He’s coarser than your pa, but I liked him, maybe ’cause he gave me a job. I was a cook’s helper the first trip, but got to scout for him the second time.”
Jeb turned to Win. “You’ve been to California twice since I last saw you?” He leaned back, turned his face to the sky, and closed his eyes. “I got jealousy boilin’ inside me, Win. I just might have to hit you.”
“You did the right thing, staying in school.”
Jeb rose abruptly. “How long are you staying?”
Bound by no schedule, Win hadn’t planned past the day. Craning his neck to look up at his friend’s tall frame, he said, “As long as you need me, Jeb.”
“I’ve gotta feed the stock.” Jeb started toward the barn. Win followed.
Old Daniel, a faithful workhorse of the Dawsons for as long as Win could remember, plodded over to the corral fence. Win greeted Old Daniel while Jeb disappeared into the barn. Then the velvet nose of the sorrel he used to ride, Hippocrates, brushed against Win’s shoulder. He nuzzled with him before reaching over to stroke the neck of Galen, a bay that had been Jeb’s. A dying patient bequeathed a pair of young foals to Jeb’s father, who named them after two prominent figures in medical history and then assigned Jeb and Win the task of raising them. Win figured they must be almost ten years old by now—still young and healthy. It wasn’t the welcoming party he’d imagined, but a welcome sight nonetheless. Jeb came out with three buckets of oats.
“Adam Blankenship’s been looking after the stock. He said Pa rode these two regularly on house calls,” Jeb said. He held up a feed bucket for Galen. “He said he’d be happy to buy them . . . Old Daniel, too.”
Win winced inwardly as he held a bucket for Old Daniel. The thought of selling Galen and Hippocrates felt like a stomach punch. He’d become a capable horse handler caring for Hippocrates. The training had served him well. The Express ponies seemed to favor Win and ran hard for him. On trail, he sweet-talked the cook’s cantankerous mules into cooperating, which elevated Win’s status from nobody to muleskinner overnight. Jeb couldn’t sell Hippocrates and Galen.
When the horses had finished eating, Jeb reluctantly turned to the house. “I guess it’s time. I haven’t been in his office yet.”
“Let’s go together.” Win walked with him to the house. With the key stored on top of the doorframe, Jeb unlocked the door separating the living quarters from Dr. Dawson’s office.
Neighbors had tried to clean up the mess. Someone had stacked Dr. Dawson’s medical journals neatly on his desk. Broken glass had been swept up, but there were bloodstains on the wooden floor that could not be scrubbed away, and they were sobering to look at. Win wondered what possible words he could say that would offer any comfort. “Your pa must have been looking forward to you practicing with him.”
Open Road Page 1