Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  At the saloon, Win told Clint about heading west with Jeb and finding Meg on the prairie. Clint laughed heartily when he heard how Meg had raced Win when he was a Post rider. Clint was a good laugher. He made the person telling the story feel like he was telling a good one. When Win got to the part where they met Gray Wolf, Clint sighed with relief.

  “I was worried when you said you had trouble, ’cause I know Gray Wolf just moved his family there. He stays out of sight, mostly. The fact that he approached you is interesting.”

  “He said we met for a purpose,” Win said. “He thinks spirits are at work.”

  Clint smiled. “He’s funny that way, but he’s no fool, and very practical. He sees war being waged on his people and knows he’s out-powered. But he isn’t gonna let our government push him ’round, neither. I don’t blame him for avoiding the reservation. He may claim spirits are telling him to stay away, but I think he’s just damn stubborn.” Clint went on say how he and Gray Wolf crossed paths from time to time. He shook his head. “I don’t know why we can’t do honest business with them and keep our promises. Whoever figured Indians would just peacefully move away and onto reservations? I tell ya, I’d rather work with them than make enemies of them.”

  “I agree,” Win said. “Seems like there’s room enough out here for everybody.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Win, just between us. I am doing business with him . . . on the sly. I owe him.”

  “I can understand that. He saved your life. What kind of business?”

  “Well, Gray Wolf don’t take charity. You gotta trade square. I brought him a few small things to make their lives a little easier—you know, kettles, and some warm blankets. I came back with more furs than I knew what to do with. But I’ve been thinking. I got an idea that might be equally good for both of us.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  Clint swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, you know who Ben Holladay is, right?”

  “The Stagecoach King? Who controls most of the stage lines and is one of the largest employers in the country? Yeah, I think I’ve heard of him.” Win grinned.

  Clint chuckled. “All right, all right, stupid question. So, he’s got a monopoly on the stage and postal business. Can’t do much about that. He’s got money and a station at Lyonsville, and I can’t do much about that either. Good spot, I’ll admit. Right now, folks go through Lyonsville on their way to LaPorte, ’cause that’s the route he made. But the way you came is faster—through that little Paradise place. People just don’t take it ’cause Holladay’s got them convinced it’s safer his way. But you saw it. There’s already a blacksmith, saloon, and general store sitting in the middle of a grassy, flat spot. Could be a nice route for folks who want to cut a little time off between Cheyenne and Denver.”

  “Beautiful country,” Win said, repeating Meg’s words and thinking of her.

  “I’d sure like to run a private stage line through there, keeping on the flatland, of course. Cheyenne, LaPorte, Cold Springs . . .”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Clint drained his glass. “I’m sure you know that early this year, Indians burned Julesburg to the ground. They tore down over seventy miles of telegraph line. Killed eighteen people. They stole provisions from there and from Antelope Station, about twelve miles east. Cheyenne and Sioux burned all the buildings, murdered the caretaker. Spring Hill, Beaver Creek . . . most of the stations east of LaPorte were attacked by Cheyenne, Kiowa, Pawnee, Sioux—they’re banding together now instead of fighting each other. They’re mad as hell, and I don’t blame them. Government shoves them out of their homes and promises them food but doesn’t deliver. It’s a goddamn mess.” He got the attention of the barkeep. Another round arrived.

  “Latham wasn’t attacked . . . Why do you suppose that is? Fort Collins isn’t any closer to it than Fort Morgan is to the other stations,” Win said.

  “I got a couple of theories about that. One is they’ve steered clear out of respect for Gray Wolf.”

  “What’s your other theory?”

  “They just haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Clint said. “That’s why I’ve been slow to invest. Maybe Holladay can afford to lose thousands of dollars in supplies and materials to rebuild stations, but I can’t.”

  Win stared into his shot glass, Clint’s words slowly registering. “You’re thinking you could run freight and stage lines through Paradise if you had Gray Wolf’s cooperation, and what you’d trade for his cooperation would be . . .”

  “Rifles.”

  “Hmm . . . When Gray Wolf and his party attacked Sutter, they had only bows and arrows. If they had rifles . . .”

  “They’d be more powerful,” Clint said.

  “Protect their families.”

  Clint cocked his head. “Hunt easier.”

  “Keep the road secure,” Win said, following Clint’s line of thinking.

  They clinked their glasses together. Win mulled over the idea of supplying rifles to Indians. It was illegal, not to mention risky. It could easily get the lot of them hanged.

  Clint held up his glass as an indication he was closing the subject for the time being. “I’m going to chew on it awhile, but I’m encouraged by our conversation, Win.” He drained his glass. “Now, you brought up this Meg gal more than once. What’s she to you?”

  The mention of Meg’s name brought a smile to Win’s face, but all he could do was to shake his head. “I honestly don’t know, Clint. Haven’t had much time to reflect on it. A lot has happened these last few weeks.”

  “What about Jeb? He sweet on her?”

  “We made a pact, Jeb and me, that she wouldn’t change our friendship.”

  For a second time, Clint threw his head back and laughed a good belly laugh. “Good luck with that. I live with one of them, and, let me tell you, women change everything.”

  Win wondered if Clint ever missed his days on the trail. When they traveled together, Clint told stories that always made Win’s feet itch, stories about riding through wide, open country, free of want or responsibility. Yet here he was now, managing a business and living with a woman he gave up the trail for. He had traded the open road for a responsible life and a soft, warm bed. Win wondered briefly if he’d ever feel like settling down, but brushed the thought away, impossible to imagine. His thoughts turned instead to Meg.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: JEB

  Dewer, Colorado Territory

  After a few days’ rest to give his head a chance to heal, Jeb set out with Win and a shipment to the rowdy mining town of Dewer, about ten miles into the mountains. The assignment drew no protest from Clint’s other teamsters, as the town had no sheriff. No one wanted to deliver supplies there, as robbers often intercepted the delivery. Jeb took the job because his doctor received a telegram from Dewer, saying that the medical equipment he’d ordered had been delivered there by mistake. Dr. Miller hadn’t the time or inclination to pick it up himself, so retrieving the misdirected equipment became in-kind payment for Jeb’s medical care. Kill two birds with one stone, someone said. Jeb hoped he and Win weren’t the birds.

  Dewer was a depressing place—gray and muddy. Relieved to have delivered the shipment to the dry-goods store without incident, Jeb quickly cinched the last knot on a canvas covering the doctor’s equipment in hopes of leaving the town as soon as possible. A man in a traveling coat and carrying a satchel exited the telegraph office and picked his way through the mud to the wagon. The man’s bushy muttonchops were a sharp contrast to the thinning hair on top of his head. More notable than his impressive whiskers was the large wine-stain birthmark on the left side of his forehead and temple. The birthmark extended into his muttonchop.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen, my name is Albert Rothenberg. I find I have been as misdirected as Nathan Miller’s new equipment. Nathan needs to improve his penmanship, particularly his Ns and Vs, but that is not your problem, is it? I’ve heard you are taking his shipment to him. I wonder if I might ride along. Would you mind?
”

  Win glanced at Jeb, who shrugged to indicate he had no objection. The man didn’t look dangerous, and might even be useful as an extra lookout.

  “Not at all. Climb aboard.” Win took Mr. Rothenberg’s bag and slid it under the springboard seat.

  “I’m much obliged.” Rothenberg hoisted himself up, his birthmark changing from a chokecherry red to a ripe buffalo-berry purple from the exertion.

  Jeb took a seat on the crates loaded in the wagon, facing backward to have eyes in all directions, his rifle across his lap. Win hopped into the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. A sharp whistle to the mules and they were underway.

  “What’s your business with Doc Miller, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not at all!” Rothenberg’s spirits seemed to rise now that he was leaving the dismal hamlet. “Dr. Miller served with Ferdinand Hayden near the end of the war. Dr. Hayden is now professor of mineralogy and geology at the University of Pennsylvania and is gathering a team together for an expedition back into the upper Missouri River country.” Rothenberg turned to include Jeb in the conversation. “Have you ever read The Ancient Fauna of Nebraska? It includes fossilized Dakota specimens that Hayden found and sent back to Professor Leidy. Vertebrate paleontology, gentlemen, right here in America! Can you imagine? Evidence of ancient camels, elephants, rhinoceri—right under our feet!”

  Jeb wasn’t sure he understood every word Rothenberg spoke. He didn’t know what vertebrate paleontology was, but he surely knew what Win was thinking. At the mention of an expedition, Win’s posture changed. He shifted in his seat restlessly, a telltale sign he was already bored with the freighting business.

  “How does Dr. Miller figure into this?” Win asked.

  “Ah, of course, forgive me. Dr. Hayden wants me to persuade Nathan to come along. He liked Nathan’s keen attention to detail. I’m a scout, of sorts, for Hayden and other scientists. I facilitate their projects in a variety of ways.”

  Win said nothing, which was unusual for him. Jeb knew Win’s silence probably meant he already felt conflicted between his loyalty to Clint and his desire to join an expedition, and was wrestling with his conscience. Jeb took up the slack in the conversation. “I didn’t realize scientists were so interested in the West.”

  “It’s the next big step in the name of progress, Mr. Dawson. Exploration and discovery. Our appetites whetted before the war, now science is ready to take a great leap forward, and geology will lead the way.”

  Rothenberg went on at length, describing the valuable materials the land hid. Jeb knew he caught Win’s ear, though, when he said, “Washington wants to investigate and map our western territories. They need information about the land—what can be farmed, what natural resources we have, and so on—and that requires a survey, and surveying takes money. I am certain money will be appropriated to explore the West as part of our domestic policy. At present, universities fund expeditions into the frontier. Field research has become prestigious and popular.

  “For decades, we’ve been gathering data about cartography, botany, zoology, and geology,” Rothenberg said, “ever since Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery traveled up the Missouri. But there’s no rhyme or reason to any of the information; no system. There’s a trend now to organize, specialize, and put this information to work. We’re looking for geologists, more specifically, metallurgists, to do out west what has been done in the past decade in each eastern state. Geological surveys. They want to know what resources are available in the territories.”

  Jeb scanned the hillside. “I can’t help but wonder what the Indians think about these survey expeditions.”

  “Particularly when military escorts accompany them,” Win said.

  “Early explorers viewed Indians as part of the landscape,” Rothenberg said, “more of a marvel than man. Indians were observed and classified along with the rest of the landscape. Times have changed, though. I won’t deny that some of the reconnaissance now is to gain information about their fighting strength.”

  “That sits ill with me,” Win said. Jeb was relieved to hear that Win had the same concerns.

  “You sound like my friend John Mix Stanley,” Rothenberg said. Jeb observed that the man had hardly taken a breath since he joined them. “He traveled all over the west with no other motive than painting the landscape and portraits of the natives.”

  Jeb said, “I can’t help but feel uneasy about the effect the surveys will have on the Indians.”

  Rothenberg nodded. “I understand. But scientists can survey the land and bring our aboriginal friends no harm. Audubon traversed the country without inciting hostilities. The world would be a lesser place without his Birds of America, wouldn’t you agree? His motives were hardly suspicious or malevolent.”

  Jeb had to admit that Rothenberg made it sound plausible and dispelled some of his reservations. After all, it was innocent work; scientists studying rocks and fossils, artists painting portraits, surveyors drawing maps. No military campaign, no removal of Indians. Scientists were peaceful, not political.

  Judging by Win’s expression, he was already miles away, riding with an expedition that had the magnitude of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: MEG

  Clint Sanders’s freight company stables, Denver

  Meg scrambled up the five-foot wall that separated Galen and Hippocrates in their straight stalls in Mr. Sanders’s barn. Dangling her legs from her perch, she broke three carrots into pieces and gave the horses their treat. Biscuit snorted in the stall next to Galen.

  “I’m saving some for you, Biscuit,” Meg chided. “Don’t worry.” She hiked herself up and balanced on the ledge like a tightrope walker over to the next stall. While Biscuit crunched on carrots, Meg inspected her ears and scratched her forelock. She pressed her own forehead against Biscuit’s. “No lectures. I know I’ve gotta find a job. I just don’t know what I can do.”

  Win and Jeb had already left on their first freight delivery. A few days after they arrived in Denver, their boss sent them on what Meg considered a risky delivery to a mining camp. She overheard Clint tell them to stay sharp on the blind curves, where bandits set traps. Clint suggested that they keep their revolvers close and told whoever rode shotgun to have his rifle in hand, loaded and ready. Meg wasn’t sure what was so “exhilarating” about driving into such lawless country, but that was the word Win used as he slapped the reins to get the team of six mules going. Maybe he was joking, but, then again, he looked pretty excited.

  Meg sighed and returned to her own problems. Most of the jobs open to women required skills she lacked. Jeb had a good idea about clerking at a bookshop. She inquired at the only bookshop in Denver, but the owner had just hired someone and couldn’t afford any more staff.

  She and Gus had always done their best thinking when they brushed down the horses together. The stable was a good place to figure things out. She found a brush and got started on Hippocrates.

  “You like that, fella?” Meg said to him as she brushed his neck. “Biscuit likes it. She likes a good brushing. It makes her feel pretty. You and she have been through a lot already, haven’t you? Are you and Biscuit close? Probably not as close as you and Galen. The two of you have a lot of history together. A girl can’t hardly break that bond, can she? Not that she’d want to. You know, Biscuit has a lot of respect for friendship. She’d never come between two handsome horses like you and Galen, no, sir—”

  Meg heard someone clear his throat, as if to make his presence known. Clint stood in the doorway.

  “Oh! Hello, Mr. Sanders. I’m just looking after the horses, not that your men wouldn’t . . .” Meg said, embarrassed to be caught talking to animals. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

  “I understand, little lady. Don’t worry about it; you’re welcome here.” Clint ambled over to the stalls. She turned back to Hippocrates and continued brushing him.

  Clint picked up a brush and started on Galen. “Win says you’re
quite the horsewoman.”

  “Well, horses are easier to deal with than people, Gus would say. They each have their own personality, though, just like people.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. I had a bay once that would only allow my saddle on her. She’d come over to me in the remuda and wait for me, and if anyone else tried to saddle her, she’d snort and paw and act all ornery.”

  “Well, no doubt your bay just had a simple schoolgirl crush on you.” Meg picked a burr from Hippocrates’ mane. “I’ll bet she pouted when you rode some other pretty filly.”

  Clint laughed. “Come to think of it, the day I gave her a rest and let her run with the others in the remuda, she bucked and bit and caused all sorts of commotion. After that, I figured it was better just to ride her so I could keep an eye on her.”

  “There you go. Is she still with you?”

  “Nah, a Paiute stole her. He came out of nowhere and nearly scalped me, but after we scuffled awhile, he figured it’d be easier to steal her than to kill me. I’d like to think she turned on him somewhere in the desert, the rotten bastard.” Clint stopped brushing and turned to Meg. “I heard something about you looking for work. How’s that going?”

  Meg sighed. “I don’t know how to do anything anybody’ll hire me for.”

  “Sorry to hear that. What can you do?”

  “Not much . . . brush ponies.” She waved the brush in the air. “That’s why I’m here. Gus and I did our best thinking and planning in the barn. I thought if I came here and spent some time with Biscuit, I might find some answers.”

  “Why don’t you just go home to that Gus feller?”

  Meg shook her head. “I’ll never go back. Gus and I belong out here. I can’t explain it, but we just do.”

  “When I was trail boss, people used to ask me why a family would pick up and leave everything behind to make a suicidal trek across land full of dangers and hardships to an uncertain new home with no guarantees. I always responded that if you had to ask the question, you wouldn’t understand the answer. I hear what you’re saying, Miss Jameson.”