Jeb said nothing.
“I’m sure he was real proud of—”
“I quit.”
The words hung in the air, suspended on thin silk threads.
“Quit what?” Win asked. “Medical school?”
Jeb nodded. “Being a doctor was Pa’s dream, not mine. A man follows his own dreams, not someone else’s.”
“Aw, hell, Jeb. You’re gonna make a damn fine doctor. Give yourself a little rein.”
Jeb held up his hand. “I dropped out four months ago. I should have told Pa. I wish I had. It’s a lie I can’t fix now.”
Win stared at Jeb. “What made you change your mind?”
“A lot of little things, I guess. It took a while for my gut and my head to agree, but in the end, I knew it was right. I’ve been working at a sawmill. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done, but it feels good. I’m grateful the dean of the school tracked me down when the telegram came about Ma and Pa.”
Win handled the news the way he’d learned to handle most things, which was to stay on the light side of heavy matters. Tragic events early in life taught Win to be adaptable and thick-skinned, qualities that sometimes made him seem cavalier. But, in reality, he simply found it less painful not to get too invested in anything. So now that Jeb, the responsible, obedient son, had dropped out of medical school, naturally his confession amused Win. He reached over and squeezed Jeb’s muscular arm. “Damn, you’re a beast.” He grinned. “I thought you looked bigger than I remembered. You’ve got at least twenty pounds more muscle on you. I guess you don’t get that way sitting in a library.”
Jeb shook his head. “I guess you haven’t lost your peculiar sense of humor.”
Win woke the next morning to the aroma of coffee. For a peaceful moment, he was a boy again at the Dawson home, with Mrs. Dawson cooking breakfast in the kitchen. Win’s thoughts drifted to a day a decade earlier. He was eating supper with the Dawsons, something he did almost every evening that year.
“Miz Dawson, what’s a Corja Bull?” Win had asked Jeb’s mother as he’d scooped a second helping of potatoes onto his plate. Mrs. Dawson said she had never heard of that kind of bull. Dr. Dawson speculated that it might be a new breed, and asked where Win heard about it. Jeb explained that their teacher, Miss Palmer, called Win a “Corja Bull” after he fell out of the schoolhouse window.
Mrs. Dawson had placed a reassuring hand tenderly on his shoulder. She asked if Miss Palmer called him “incorrigible.” Win said yes and asked what it meant. “Win, you dear boy,” Mrs. Dawson had said, “incorrigible simply means that sometimes you are just too lively and curious for some grown-ups.”
Win’s mind cleared; he remembered Sarah Dawson was dead, and the ache returned. He pulled on his clothes, combed through his unruly hair with his fingers, and shuffled downstairs into the kitchen to find Jeb attempting to cook breakfast. He was trying to pick pieces of eggshell out of a hot pan.
Yawning, Win waved his friend away from the stove and took over. “I did this every morning for five months straight.” Win cleared the gravel from his throat. “Don’t even need to be fully awake.” He scraped the pan clean, tossed in a dollop of lard that sizzled, and broke fresh eggs into it. Then he sliced some bacon and threw it in the pan with the eggs.
Jeb poured coffee into two cups and sat down at the table.
Win glanced at him. “I’ve been thinking. You should come west with me.”
“And do what?”
“We could go on that adventure we always talked about as kids—sleep under the stars, ride the open prairie . . .”
“I mean for work. I’ve already got a job. Besides, we were going to join a ship’s crew and sail the seas, not that it matters.”
Win paused from stirring the eggs. “It’s so big out there, it’s like the ocean. The sky is huge and the land goes on forever. You’ve got to see it, while it’s still there . . .”
“Where’s it going?”
“I mean while it’s still wild.” Win was wide awake now as his idea took root. “You’ve got to see the wide, open space before it gets cluttered with people. At the rate folks are headed out there, the whole country will look like Council Bluffs Landing in a few years.”
“Boss gave me four days. I’ve got to be back by my shift on Friday,” Jeb said.
“Why?”
“Ice is breaking upriver. We’ve got to get the logs out before they jam up.”
“No, I mean why go back? You’ve got to come with me and see the frontier. It’s gonna disappear, Jeb. You can’t go back to that mill.”
“I can’t just walk away from a good job.”
“Sure you can. Besides, I’ve been thinking about going to Denver to look up my old boss. He’ll give us jobs. He doesn’t pilot wagon trains to California anymore; he has a freight company. He said he found a gal who can tolerate him and wants to spend his nights lying next to a warm, soft woman instead of on the cold, hard ground.” Win smiled at the thought. “We could go cross-country, take Galen and Hippocrates—save them from a boring existence in Rockfield, too. Hell, a stage could get us to Denver in a week, which just shows you how fast the country is shrinking, but what’s the fun of that?” Win envisioned riding through the prairie again. This time he wouldn’t be alone. “Why not take a couple of months instead?”
“Sounds irresponsible.”
Win stirred the eggs. “Exactly! If there was ever a time to take to the open road and be irresponsible, it’s now. Come on, what do you say?”
“Let me think on it.”
“That sawmill job is nothing, and you know it.”
“You’re like a dog with a sock.” Jeb sounded annoyed. He gripped his coffee mug tightly. “Drop it. I don’t change directions as fast as you.”
Win dished up two plates and set them down on the table. Jeb said it was the ugliest mess of eggs and bacon he’d ever seen. Win figured he was just feeling ornery. Jeb arrived at decisions at his own pace, and pushing him only brought out the mule in him. Win dropped the subject of going west and asked about the neighbors he could remember. “Remember that Harvest Festival the year before I left . . . when Hippocrates won the horse race? I’ve forgotten why Ben Richards was so sore at me.”
Despite his criticism of Win’s cooking, Jeb had no trouble eating it. Between bites he said, “Your memory is lousy. Galen won that race. You were too busy kissing Ben Richards’s daughter to remember anything.”
Win threw his head back and laughed. “Whatever happened to Sally?”
“She married Virgil; they’ve got a kid already.”
“No shit . . .”
Four years earlier, classmate Sally Richards had stared dreamily at Win for the better part of a week before he took her behind the schoolhouse at recess and kissed her. The incident became known during the Harvest Festival, irritating classmate Virgil Peters, who challenged Win to a fistfight. Win had spread his arms out in a gesture of astonished innocence and told Virgil he had no reason to fight him, adding that Sally would probably be more than happy to kiss him, too. At that point, Sally’s father appeared and took off after him.
“Maybe I should go visit ol’ Sally Richards while I’m here . . . see how she’s doin’,” Win said with his mouth full, the memory of Sally’s soft lips lingering with him.
“It’s Sally Peters now, and if you value your health, you’ll steer clear. Virgil grew some after you left.” Jeb stabbed at a piece of bacon. “How can the sky be bigger than here? Seems to me the sky is the sky.”
“Ha! That’s why you gotta see it, so you know what I mean,” Win said, pleased that Jeb was already returning to more relevant matters. With his fork, Win pointed at the west-facing window. “No trees to block the view. You can see for miles.” He pointed at the ceiling. “At night, the stars hang so low, you swear you can touch them.”
Jeb ate in silence. Finally, he said, “Aren’t you going to say it?”
“Say what?”
“That stupid ass motto of yours, the one
that always got us in trouble. You know . . . ‘Sometimes you gotta do something crazy, just to feel alive.’ ”
Win hadn’t used his favorite argument for quite some time, primarily because Jeb was right; it was a stupid ass saying that usually got him into trouble. But the fact that Jeb brought it up was as good as announcing that he’d decided to come with him. Win tried to contain his excitement, but a broad grin escaped anyway. “This is different. This isn’t crazy; it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”
Win helped close up the house. He was boxing up books in the library when Jeb appeared in the doorway holding a brand new lever-action, breech-loading, repeating Henry rifle. Win whistled in astonishment.
“That’s a beauty.”
Jeb handed the rifle to him. “It’s for you. I just found it buried in Ma’s trunk. I got one just like it two years ago at Christmas. From the bill of sale, it looks like she bought them together and planned to give this one to you.”
A pang of guilt hit Win in the chest. She’d been waiting two years to give him that fine, handsome rifle. Staying away for so long seemed ungrateful. The Dawsons had shown him far more kindness than he deserved, and he had no way to repay them.
Jeb, not without emotion, but with no-nonsense purpose—now that he’d agreed to travel with Win—brought out a box of odds and ends, saying they looked like they might have some value.
“We should sell some of this and get ourselves a couple of .44 Colt revolvers. With a revolver and a repeating rifle apiece, we’ll be as well-armed as guards protecting gold on its way to the San Francisco mint.”
Win thought about the Colt Dragoon revolver he’d taken off a dead man, which was stolen from him two months earlier. It had been a good gun. Too complicated a story to tell at the moment, Win decided against mentioning it. “Good idea,” he said.
They sold the chickens and packed away Dr. Dawson’s medicines. The neighbor ladies came for Mrs. Dawson’s dresses, although Jeb saved the handkerchiefs she had embroidered, combs she wore in her hair for special occasions, and her wedding ring. He also saved his father’s kit of medicinal powders and a few surgical instruments.
Jeb left the key to the house on the kitchen table. He’d arranged for Mr. Blankenship to come by the next day to lock up and take Old Daniel back with him. When the house sold, he’d forward the money to the Denver National Bank. They had known Adam Blankenship all of their lives—his word was all that was needed.
Win and Jeb left Rockfield the next day. They packed provisions and took one last look around their childhood home. Sadness and excitement braided together so tightly, Win couldn’t feel one without the other. Running off four years ago seemed unappreciative, but he could make amends. Jeb needed rescuing now . . . and Win was just the man to do it.
CHAPTER TWO: JEB DAWSON
Nebraska Territory, Spring 1865
Jeb groaned as he eased his sore body out of the saddle. He didn’t know of a muscle in his legs or backside that didn’t burn. “I guess there’s a difference between riding and riding all day.” He arched his back, stretching out the stiffness.
“That’ll go away; another day and you won’t feel it.” Win dismounted with an agility that Jeb envied. The way he went to work setting up their evening camp reminded Jeb of how his mother had hung laundry or kneaded bread dough—habitual tasks repeated so often that no conscious thought was required.
Win had aged more years than he’d been gone, Jeb thought. He was capable and confident, and even though he’d joked about Jeb adding twenty pounds of muscle, he, too, had filled out and grown taller. While Jeb hobbled the horses and unsaddled them, Win made quick work of building a fire and cleaning the chicken he had bought from a farmer. Soon he had it roasting on a spit.
Despite his sore backside, Jeb loved every minute of their days on trail. The splendor they traveled through awakened his senses dulled by grief. They crossed the Missouri and Platte Rivers on crowded ferries, but, as they were not encumbered by oxen and prairie schooners, they quickly separated themselves from the commotion once on the west side of the Platte. Win let out a whoop and Hippocrates galloped straight for the setting sun as though trying to catch it. Jeb and Galen chased after him into wide-open country. The clay shell encasing his heart cracked and broke away in chunks like the clumps of dirt kicked up by the horses’ hooves. Win’s idea to head west wasn’t youthful stupidity at all. It was brilliant.
Jeb lowered his stiff body down next to the fire. The smoke masked the rich, earthy aroma of a prairie springing to life. The sun dropped, painting the clouds red and gold.
“See that sky?” Win leaned back and gazed at the colorful display. “I once saw a girl with hair that color. When I was riding for Russell, I got a special assignment. It was some kind of secret dispatch, ’cause it couldn’t be telegraphed, and I got permission to go off route and ride to Omaha. The fellow gave me twenty bucks and said if I got it there in time, the gentleman on the other end would give me twenty more. As you can imagine, I took the job. Anyway, I was on my way back with forty dollars in my pocket and nervous as hell I would get robbed—now that I had something worth stealing. Out of the blue comes this other rider, tearing out like Indians are after him. At first I thought he was coming after my forty bucks, so I spurred my horse to get away. I’m pushing my pony as fast as I dare. I look over and see that the rider isn’t chasing me at all; he’s riding alongside of me, like he’s racing! But then his hat flies off his head and I see that he isn’t a he at all, he’s a she! She’s a wild little thing, her hair in two braided pigtails, but most of it loose and blowing around her head. Her hair was that color,” he said, pointing to a cloud. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen a girl ride like that, either. She kept racing me ’til finally I tipped my hat to her, which was hard, ’cause I could barely hang on. A big ol’ grin spread across her face and then she let up, like that’s what she’d been waiting for. She waved to me and turned around to lope back to wherever she came from.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“Nope.” Win intertwined his fingers behind his head and stared at the sky.
The girl must have made quite an impression, as Win sounded disappointed. Juices from the chicken dripped into the fire and sizzled. Jeb carefully lifted their meal from the flames.
“Here, grab a leg.” Jeb held the chicken for his friend.
Win came out of his musing and pulled off one of the legs. “At some point, we’ll join a train. Even well-armed, crack shots like us would be fools to cross the territory alone these days. We don’t want Inkpaduta to get us,” he said, laughing.
As a boy, the most terrifying stories Jeb heard were about the murderous Inkpaduta and his band of followers, who massacred settlers in northern Iowa and took three women and a girl captive. Different from the adventure stories that took place at sea, these horrific accounts were real, and close to home. The renegade Dakota eluded capture and became the subject of many a tall tale in the schoolyard.
“Don’t worry, Jeb,” Win said, grinning. “Flash floods and twisters, now that’s scary shit.” When Jeb didn’t laugh, Win abandoned his teasing and assured Jeb that they’d look for a large wagon train—one with at least forty wagons. Large trains with extra men greatly reduced the threat of an Indian attack.
“By tomorrow, we’ll be at Salt Creek.” Win chewed the chicken leg to bare bone and tossed it in the fire. “I bet we’ll see a train crossing there and be welcomed like family. A couple of fellows like us, with our own horses and guns—hell, they might even pay us.”
Jeb pulled the meat from the bone and wondered what it would be like to be Win, a seemingly unconcerned dandelion seed blowing in whatever direction the wind took it. He guessed he was finding out.
As Win predicted, several wagon trains congregated at the Salt Creek Crossing. A community of blacksmiths and wheelwrights had formed at the river’s edge, where trains naturally stopped. Dry goods salesmen made a decent living there, too. Prices were high
er than even just thirty miles east, but unless a family wanted to lose two days of travel to get a better price, there was little they could do but pay. Merchants sold just about anything: essentials like flour, sugar, and tools; non-essentials like erroneous guidebooks and elixirs with questionable ingredients; and downright unsavory items like Indian scalps, necklaces of human bones, and other souvenirs confiscated from encounters with hostile Indians.
Win eyed several groups and, for whatever reason, passed them without a word. When they came upon a large train crossing at a wide, shallow spot in the river, Jeb saw what Win had been searching for.
Men on the near side cajoled the oxen into the water, while others on the far side saw to it that the oxen didn’t balk once they crossed and were required to scale the riverbank to solid ground again. The whole operation was calm and well organized; several wagons carried children.
One man sat on his horse, supervising. His clothes were practical and well suited to him, his hat was perfectly shaped to keep rain off his neck and sun out of his eyes, his handsome palomino quarter horse was alert and ready for his command, and his age—seasoned, but not ancient—identified him as the boss.
Win said he had a good feeling about this train and approached the man. “Pardon me, sir, are you the trail captain?”
“I am.” He didn’t volunteer any more information. Jeb felt himself being sized up immediately.
“Were you hired or elected?” Win asked. “If you don’t mind the question.”
Settlers who hired a trail boss rather than elect one from their group generally fared better—at least that’s what Jeb had gathered from Win. Professionals knew what they were doing and where they were going. Travel was safer, and the petty conflicts fewer.
“It was a mutual agreement,” the pilot said as he looked Win over carefully. “It is correct that I have been hired to escort these folks to California, but I’m particular about who I wet-nurse across the prairie. Don’t take no simpering city folks, and no Mormons. You ain’t Mormon, are you?”
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