On a bright early June morning whose sun shone benevolently upon the expedition, the two men shook the dust of Grayson from their feet without a single regret. Neither had been blessed with family or any long-term friends in the area, so their leave-taking consisted of dropping off the house key at State Memorial Bank and a lighthearted wave to the General Store’s porch-sitters.
Almost immediately upon setting out from southern Indiana, they had joined up with a small band of travelers also heading west, under the leadership of wagon master Seth Woodson. Safety in numbers, Ben had suggested to his henchman, and Adam agreed. Much better coping with the dangers of the road as a factor of forty than two.
Their trek had taken them cater-corner upward across Illinois and Iowa without any major incident.
Except for an infestation of gnats and horseflies that plagued wayfarers and stock animals alike during the day, and clouds of vicious mosquitoes that attacked after dark. Or the quarrel that ignited between one husband and wife over her refusal to cook another meal in such primitive circumstances until he made some other arrangements (exactly what that was to be, on the trail, was unspecified). Or the run-in by one hardy emigrant, out hunting during a Sunday stopover, with a full-grown panther quite annoyed by this incursion of alien beings into his territory.
With livestock needing water, Woodson’s train followed along the North Platte River, from Nebraska Territory to the Territory of Wyoming, here and there adding on another family or two. In the high plains, swept by never-ending wind, deep sands had pulled at the wagon wheels and sent waves of dust aloft for miles. In the mountains, thunderstorms and treacherous passes abounded, both lying in wait to snag the unwary traveler.
From there it was on to the Sweetwater. Near Fort Casper, one of the farmers headed to northern California began wielding an axe on firewood too enthusiastically and almost chopped off his own foot. Fortunately Dr. Yancey was there, right on the scene, racing to the rescue with his medical kit and healing arts.
More mountains, over the Green River, jogging northwest.
By now, nearly two months on the trail, tempers had grown short and nerves rubbed raw from exhaustion, weather extremes, discomfort, and the sense that all of this was simply a terrible ongoing nightmare from which no one would ever awake. More and more often, fist fights broke out over the most trivial of offenses; and spouses snapped at each other upon the slightest provocation, with children sometimes caught in the middle.
A turn south into the State of Nevada, along the Humboldt River, gave the weary travelers another dash of hope. At least until they came upon the Forty Mile Desert.
The wagoneers were warned of this most dreaded part of the whole lengthy California Trail. No surcease from the sun meant travel at night; no drinkable water meant filling every barrel and every available container to the brim prior to departure. By 1850, more than 900 hapless souls had been buried along this barren stretch. The Woodson train added two more: an elderly man with consumption, and a woman who, having finally reached the limits of her endurance, turned her husband’s handgun upon herself.
The rest dug in and held grimly on. Adam looked worn to a shadow, almost as gaunt as the horses straining at their Schooner’s load under the cool blue moon. Good humor had long since disappeared from most of the weakened, worn out group, including Benton Yancey.
But every journey must eventually end, and so did this one.
Reaching the Sierra Nevadas, and then the restful green valley farther west, was like reaching Paradise. Seth Woodson chose a lush open meadow, ringed by Ponderosa Pine and Douglas Fir, white alder and cottonwood, and bisected by a shallow rippling creek, in which to lay up for a few days. Women could wash laundry, cook more elaborate meals, take some leisure time for gossip and needlework and rest; children were off and running at play; men went hunting, or checked harness, or enjoyed a few games of poker.
After that, the train split up. Most of the group were regaining their enthusiasm for a brighter future, and were eager to be on their way.
Ben, with backside sore and every muscle protesting another sojourn atop the Conestoga’s high seat, turned his team southwest, toward the town that awaited their coming. Whitfield, California: the place of his rebirth.
It was late August, and the air fell sultry and sweet from a brass-blue sky. What wasn’t scented with summer flowers had been scented with summer dust. And, as he had earlier noted, it was pretty country hereabouts.
He pulled his wagon to a slow halt under the broad branches of a Valley Oak, not far from Whitfield’s sumptuous four-story Coral Bell Hotel, and climbed creakily down to stretch out the kinks. Adam, moving even more slowly and creakily, joined him in the wide street.
“Man,” he groaned, rubbing at his posterior with both hands. “Are we finally here? Don’t seem possible, after all this time and all these miles. Almost kind of a letdown, ain’t it?”
“Can’t believe we’ve actually arrived?” Ben grinned. “Yeah, I think we made it, by God. Here safe and in one piece. Now I wanna get these poor horses watered and fed.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor Yancey. I bid you welcome to our fair city.”
The doctor turned to meet a square, well-muscled man, several inches shorter in height, with hair that had gone extinct around the top of his head, leaving only a salt-and-pepper fringe above the ears. Bushy black brows sharpened his wide, plain features to a foxy craftiness, and black eyes snapped with interest. Not very prepossessing. But imposing, in his own way.
“Good afternoon. Mr. Holcomb, I presume?” Still travel-stained and dusty, even with a change of clothing, he reached out to shake the hand of Whitfield’s most important, most prominent citizen, who had put aside whatever important business to come and meet him.
. “Sure am. I reckon that was a rare hard trip, Doctor, all the way from the Midwest. Run into any problems till you got here?”
Given the dry heat of this day in Mariposa County, Mr. Holcomb, nattily dressed in a black frock coat and striped trousers, nudged his guest out of the sun and into the shade of an overhanging tin roof.
“Nothin’ we couldn’t handle. This is Adam Zantner, who helped me out every mile of our trip.”
“Mr. Zantner,” acknowledged Holcomb, with a nod. “Tell you what, gentlemen. My man, Joe, here will lead you over to your house so’s you can get yourself settled in and relax a little. Then c’mon t’ my place for supper. Say about 7:00? We can talk over your travel, and the contract, and so on.”
“Makes sense t’ me,” Ben approved. “I thank you kindly, Mr. Holcomb.”
“Charles. Just call me Charles. You ask anybody, they’ll tell you where I live. See you later, then.” After a few last-minute directions for his employee, Holcomb left with a brisk stride, his patent leather boots beating a soft tattoo on the wooden sidewalk.
For a moment Ben stood looking after him, then glanced up at the high seat of the Schooner, then shrugged. He’d survived that hell-wagon this far; he could survive a little farther. Climbing once again on top and taking the reins, he called down to Adam, “You comin’ back up here?”
Adam flashed him a reluctant grin. “If it’s all the same t’ you, Doc, I think I’ll walk.”
“This way, Doctor Yancey,” advised the lanky, red-headed Joe, going on ahead. “Just a little ways from here.”
His new living quarters, and attached office, had been built near the center of town, with plenty of elbow space and native greenery all around. Clapboarded, freshly whitewashed, neatly landscaped, its black shutters and sturdy porch pillars added an air of complacent luxury.
Stunned, Ben could only stare.
Adam had already arrived and was leaning comfortably upon one of the wooden fence posts. “A mite showy, you’re thinkin’?” he asked with a grin.
“A helluva lot more’n I expected,” Ben admitted slowly. “And about four times the size of what I’m used to. This place is downright smug, with how good it looks.”
“You just get yourself
down, now, Doctor,” said Joe, approaching the wagon. “Here’s the key; you go on inside. We got you a nice stable out back, and a corral, so I’ll get these horses taken care of. Oh—” he called back over his shoulder, already leading the team away, “Mr. Holcomb sent some victuals over, to hold you till supper tonight.”
Ben took another look around, from the flower garden to the towering trees to the neighbors—a smaller building that housed legal offices, on one side; and, on the other, another of similar size that discreetly advertised a tailor shop and men’s clothing.
“Whatdya think, Adam?”
His handyman joined in a leisurely survey of his own. “I think,” mused Adam, not without satisfaction, “we done fell onto a gravy train. Might be nice t’ stay there for a while.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The few afternoon hours left before their attendance at the Holcomb house passed quickly. A brief foray into the kitchen was long enough to brew a pot of coffee. Then, carrying their cups, both Ben and his handyman took a tour of the grounds. After sitting on the wagon bench or, as an alternative, a saddle, for so many weeks, it was a pleasure to, as Adam put it, stretch their legs.
As promised, all four horses were enjoying the respite in their large grassy corral, attached to a roomy stable, served by a trough of fresh water and a rack of hay. Joe Kincaid had parked the Conestoga beside a small barn, before unharnessing its team, ready to be unpacked and emptied. Inside the barn, Ben noticed, stood a compact one-seater carriage, ready for his use.
“Riches,” he murmured thoughtfully.
With his share of the proceeds from the sale of Belle Clare plantation in Charleston, and his own earnings from several years of medical practice, he could easily have afforded whatever luxury he chose. But Ben, content to live simply and within his means, was neither showy nor ostentatious. He bought only what he needed; no more, no less. The trappings of wealth he saw as completely unimportant in the scheme of things.
It was a narrow, deep lot, encompassing a couple acres of wooded area, with the house bordered by a white picket fence embroidered with red ramblers. Pretty. Picturesque. Turning to go back inside, Ben squinted upward and around.
A little nagging moil in his gut signaled unease. But with what, exactly, Ben wasn’t sure. He would have to let matters churn for a while, then sort them out into some sort of concrete order.
“Quite a spread,” he mentioned now to Adam, as they took the stairs to the porch and the front door.
“Not what you’re used to,” came the shrewd conjecture. “Gonna feel comfortable here, Doc?”
Ben surveyed his entryway: walls papered in soft burgundy and cream, parquet flooring half-covered by a lengthy carpet runner, a couple of oak hall tables—one mirrored, with hooks for a coat rack, one not—standing in place. “Depends on what I’m expected t’ pay for it.”
To their left lay the parlor, a room furnished with settees and chairs upholstered in rich claret velvet, a sumptuous fireplace painted white, a patterned carpet stretched nearly from wall to wall, and incidentals such as green plants, nicely framed paintings, occasional tables, and a panoply of lamps.
“Reckon somebody liked the color red?” Ben’s question drew a guffaw from his companion.
To the right, the doctor’s office, complete with a small waiting area, two chairs, and a compact wooden table. Another door took Ben into the medical section, proper: his province. There, his eyes widened and his brows raised.
“Great Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat,” he muttered.
“I dunno much about your work, Doc,” said Adam, craning over his shoulder for a look, “but this setup looks mighty fine t’ me.”
“Ahuh. T’ me, too.”
Clean, clinical, these quarters were as well-stocked and well-equipped as some humble hospitals. An apothecary cabinet, one with multiple shelves and drawers and plenty of counter space, occupied most of the far wall. Someone had arranged everything into perfect order, from the cork-stoppered glass bottles of tinctures and tonics to rows of medical encyclopedias to microscope, rolled bandages, and a military surgical kit.
Ben’s bedazzled gaze swerved from the prominently placed examination table to a white castered stool to various bits and pieces his fingers were already itching to explore. Charles Humboldt had done himself proud, to be sure: placed in eye-catching display upon a side console lay the hand-painted sign listing Ben’s name, and the word Physician beneath it.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he adjured.
The kitchen, a sizable room with plenty of space for all the usual furnishings, opened onto a back porch; beyond that could be seen a wash house and an attached shed. Directly across the hall was situated the dining room, full of light and air and a magnificent carved table and six chairs.
“Guess it’s assumed I’ll be entertainin’ here, huh?” was his glum response. “I need some more coffee, Adam.”
Shortly they were sprawled at the commodious plank table in the kitchen, talking over what seemed to be a treasure trove. Their burgeoning friendship of nearly three years in Indiana had been cemented during the trip west, when every traveler depended on each other for support and aid. As close as he had become to his handyman, Ben felt no compunction in discussing any subject matter. Including this one.
“Looks like a mighty big string,” Adam observed now, after a sip. “Wonder what’s attached t’ the other end of it?”
Ben snorted. “Yeah, kinda what I was thinkin’. This place is a far cry from my little rented four-room house in Grayson, ain’t it?”
“And we ain’t even been upstairs yet.”
Which held, they discovered a little later, three spacious bedrooms and an actual indoor working bathroom.
“Holy Joe!” marveled the doctor. “How lucky can you get? Think we’ve died and gone t’ heaven, Adam?”
“I think you may be workin’ hard for every nail pounded int’ these walls.”
“Well, we’ll see how things shake down. Guess we should haul in those crates of clothes from the wagon and then start makin’ ourselves beautiful for this confab with Charles Holcomb.”
“Is he our boss?”
A shrug. “Prob’ly s’posed t’ be the town itself doin’ its hirin’ and firin’. But from what I’ve seen so far, I suspect Charles runs the place.”
Before he left, Joe had thoughtfully given directions to the Holcomb mansion, which lay at the outer fringes of town, within easy walking distance. There a man could have plenty of space to bend his elbows. And anything else he cared to bend. Knees. Rules. Whatever.
“Where are we, Adam?” Ben, pausing to survey the opulence of a Victorian house three stories high spread before them, wanted to know. “Figure we fell down the rabbit hole with Alice? Or got ourselves int’ the clutches of a coal baron, more like?”
“Prob’ly lotsa indoor outhouses, too,” prophesized Adam. He was rubbernecking like a sightseer to New York City, staring up at skyscrapers. “And gold doorknobs. And marble floors.”
Laughing, Ben shrugged to settle a freshly brushed suit coat more firmly around his wide shoulders. “Okay, then, my friend, let’s go beard the lion in its den.”
His use of the front door brass-plated knocker was answered by an imposing, supercilious man dressed as formally as if for a banquet. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted them in plummy British tones. “Mr. Holcomb is expecting you. Please come inside.”
Following into the foyer, the gentlemen exchanged glances, during which Adam waggled his brows and Ben gritted his teeth against a chortle. Puttin’ on airs! he longed to point out.
Into the library they proceeded, where they found Charles Holcomb enjoying a pre-dinner brandy. Dark wood paneling and bookshelves filled from stem to stern covered the walls; an octagon-shaped poker table with red felt top stood off to one side, and a billiard table had been situated near the tall windows. A man’s room, certainly, thought Ben, taking in his surroundings with appreciation.
“Ah, good e
venin’,” Holcomb greeted them, rising from his chair with glass in hand. “Will you share a drink with me?”
“Much obliged, Mr. Holcomb. You, too, Adam?”
For a half hour or so, they sat comfortably imbibing. Holcomb asked intelligent, interested questions about the arduous land voyage from southern Indiana to the far-flung border of golden California, and Ben described the passage, various events, weather and circumstances, fellow travelers. Occasionally Adam chimed in with his own observations.
In the sumptuous dining room, over a delicious meal of flaky rolls, pot roast and vegetables, and fresh peach pie, Holcomb got down to the nitty-gritty of Ben’s contract.
“You’ll remember that one of the provisions calls for you visitin’ the Whitfield Orphanage once a week, every Sunday. Just t’ check in, see how things are goin’, make sure the kids are doin’ okay.”
“That provision,” said Ben quietly, meeting his host eye to eye, “was part of the reason I decided to move here, Charles. I like the idea of givin’ back t’ the community.”
“Glad t’ hear that. Our local orphanage is my pet project, I must admit.” Finished, he leaned back in his chair, surreptitiously loosened the top button of his immaculate trousers, and sighed with relief. “But you won’t be doin’ anything there for free, Doctor. You’ll be paid a monthly stipend that should cover any health care costs.”
Ben slid a quizzical glance across the table at his handyman. “Very generous. I’m surprised the town agreed to somethin’ like that.”
“Ah, well, that ain’t so much the town as me, myself,” Holcomb assured them expansively. “I’m on the council, you see, and—well, you’ll find out soon enough…I sorta run the place.”
“Ahuh. Thought there was a mayor?”
A snort of derision. “Sure. Mayor Stenton Halliwell. You’ll meet him in the next few days. Not much more’n a figurehead, though. But, me—I’ve got the experience, the know-how, and the money t’ get done what needs t’ be done.”
“Do you now?” Ben responded politely. Another careful sideways glance. Seemed like there might be a serpent in this Garden of Eden, after all.
A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 2