by Debra Samms
"William, all I can think of is how much I want to persuade more women to do what I did – travel west and make a marriage," she said. "How many men did you say were living in Sawyerville now? Close to a thousand?"
"Yes," he answered. "There's at least that many. If you do hope to be a schoolteacher out there, we'll have to get them married so that there will one day be enough children for you to teach."
"That's certainly true," she said. "I'm feeling very hopeful that you and I together can set this new town on the road to a good future. The people there say they want help with building new lives and building a town."
He nodded, jogging along on the lively little mare. "The first thing they need for that is law and order. Before it can truly be a town, it must be a place that is safe for families with children."
"Almost no families there now," she said. "We were told that a few of the men have wives – maybe four or five, was it? But that is all. I can hardly imagine nearly a thousand men living out in the woods with no wives."
"But that's often how towns start out," William said. "The men go first to clear the way and begin to build. Then, once it's safe enough and there are a few houses – and law and order – that's when the women begin to arrive. Then there will be families living in Sawyerville."
She smiled at him. "I suppose if you and I could find one another through a notice in The Matrimonial Times, it's certainly possible that these men could do the same. After law and order, there's nothing that brings civilization faster than wives."
***
For the next two months, the wagon train continued on its way. First it traveled due south some two hundred and fifty miles along the Snake River. At the town of Boise it turned west, following different branches of the Oregon Trail for another five hundred miles. Then, finally, it reached the Umpqua River, which flowed westward near the southern end of the fertile Willamette Valley.
In the valley along the Umpqua River, Molly and William saw a few small farms, mostly raising dairy cows along with some vegetables. There were fields of alfalfa and clover, too, to make hay to feed those cattle, but that was about all. Out here, Molly could see, the wealth was in lumber rather than in farming.
As the wagon train covered the miles alongside the river, one by one the wagons left the Trail and followed the paths to their homesteads. Then, early on a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the middle of August, with only one wagon left, Molly and William and the two men driving their wagon – Peter Martin and Ezekiel Hanover, who were traveling west in hopes of working as loggers – rolled into the forest town of Sawyerville.
CHAPTER TWO
The mules worked hard to pull the covered wagon along the road which led up the tree-covered hillside to the town, which sat on a hill overlooking the Umpqua River. Molly was both relieved and excited to be here at long last – and then realized it was one of the strangest places she ever could have imagined.
The road they were on ran along the side of the heavily forested hill, and she realized it had several levels – like terraces – cut into it, all the way down to the river far below. The top two levels had buildings on one side while the other side was open to the river.
Yet the river itself could hardly be seen through the enormous fir and spruce and cedar trees – and through the many, many ragged and haphazard tents and small wooden shacks which covered the hillside on every small bare spot of wet earth beneath the trees.
Then Molly felt paralyzed as she saw that out of nearly every tent and shack came a man, or two, or three – a tall, thin, strong-looking man with long hair and a wild beard, dressed only in work pants and suspenders and a rough work shirt – or no shirt at all – and thick, heavy boots.
The sound of shouting and yelling and swearing was everywhere in the camp.
She held on to the front of the saddle to steady herself and quickly looked away from the hard silent stares of hundreds of rough men, making certain to ride close beside her husband. Molly did not fail to notice that William sat up very straight as he watched the men and kept his hand on the shotgun that hung beside his saddle.
To distract herself, Molly tried to concentrate on the side of the street that had the buildings on it. They were all made of good unfinished lumber, she saw; well, that should not be a surprise. At the head of the street was an establishment calling itself the Sliding Belle Hotel – which seemed like a very odd name to Molly – and she saw a camp office and bank, the large Frost Mercantile which seemed to have a wide selection of goods, and a blacksmith and livery stable with a few corrals at the far end of the street.
Right in the center of the street, beside the mercantile, was the sheriff's office and jail. This was to be her husband's domain. She stopped herself from looking down the hillside again.
But most of all she saw saloons. There were a total of four separate places along this street advertising gambling and whiskey, including the Sliding Belle. They all seemed to be closed today, with this being Sunday.
Molly tried not to think about what this street must be like in the evenings.
Even up here on this high road, the smell of mud and wood smoke – and something else – hung over everything, even through the fresh wet scent of the pines and spruce and cedar trees. Molly realized that it was the smell of old food, pipe tobacco, sweaty bodies, sour clothes, and even liquor that rose up from the tents and shacks down the hill and hung in the damp air like a thick cloud.
When they reached the far end of the street, in front of the livery stable, William stopped his little spotted mare. "We'll leave the horses here," he said, "and walk up to see our house." In a moment he and Molly had dismounted and were walking up the switchback path that led to the high road on the hillside.
They walked past a row of permanent lumber homes and smaller log cabins sitting up there. Molly was relieved to see them. "Just normal houses up here," she said. "No saloons. That's good."
William nodded. "These houses would be for the camp foremen and the shopkeepers. One is ours, but I'm not sure – "
"Well, good afternoon! I think you're about a day early. But welcome to Sawyerville, in any case."
Out of the largest of the houses came a tall and burly man, dressed in work clothes but with a long black coat over them as though he was trying to look like a gentlemen. "I'm Carl Mitchell," he said. "I'm the camp boss here. Those are all my men down there."
"And I'm William Strong. New sheriff. This is my wife, Margaret Strong."
"Glad to see both of you," he said, walking down from the house to shake William's hand. "You're needed here. Ma'am, I hear you're a schoolteacher?"
"Yes, I am. But I take it there aren't many children here."
"Well, there's four, altogether," said Mr. Mitchell, "including one of mine. The other three belong to a couple of the store owners here. All of the children are from about six to ten years old, so it's time they spent a while in school."
"Oh, that's wonderful!" said Molly, suddenly feeling more hopeful about this place. "Is there a school building?"
"Not yet. We hope to raise one soon – maybe in the spring. But we've got a way to go before then."
"I'm just so happy to hear that there are children already living here," Molly went on. "If there are children, then their mothers must be here, too! Could I meet them? And see our house?"
"Your house is right here," said Mr. Mitchell. "Right here in the center, right above the sheriff's office and jail. I'll see about bringing out the children and their mothers."
Molly walked up to the house and stepped inside. It was just one level, made of rough unfinished lumber with wooden shingles on the roof, and had about as much space as the downstairs alone had had in their old house. There was a large bedroom, a fairly spacious parlor, and a crude kitchen with room for a table. But that was all. And it was very, very damp. There was already a green stain of moss and even mold in some places on the bare board walls, from the constant mist and rain in this part of the country.
She tried n
ot to think too much about the fine, white-painted, two-story duplex on the sunny army post, with its fine kitchen and the most modern of conveniences and dry breezes . . . but at least this house was new, and it seemed solid and safe, and it was theirs.
When she and William came out of the house, Molly was delighted to find that there were four other women standing in the road in front of it – and there were three children with them. She didn't remember all of the names, but did catch that two of the women were the wives of camp cooks and helped to run the large cookhouses down near the river. Another was the wife of the man who ran the Frost Mercantile on the street below, and the fourth was Carl Mitchell's wife.
"Well, this doesn't seem bad at all up here," Molly said. "Nice houses and good neighbors."
"Up here, yes," said Mrs. Mitchell. "But this is where we stay. You saw the saloons down on the main road. The men are free to go to them whenever they want, and to the mercantile. They are not permitted to set foot up here."
Molly frowned a little. "Don't you ever go down to the main road? To the mercantile, or to the bank? To pick up the mail?"
Mrs. Mitchell nodded. "Yes. We go perhaps once a day, and we all go together – usually with a couple of trusted men walking with us."
"And – that's as far as you ever go, from these houses?"
The other women smiled. "About twice a week, we take a buckboard a mile to the west to the Cedar Ridge Dairy Farm and bring back milk and butter, and sometimes cheese," said one of them.
"It makes a nice change from being here," added another.
"I suppose it would," said Molly.
"And a string of supply wagons travels to the mouth of the river two to three times a week," said one of the other wives. "They meet the steamship coming from San Francisco. We get mail and other provisions that way. And sometimes passengers."
"Oh, that's wonderful too," said Molly. "Then you're really not too isolated here, are you? Imagine getting mail three times a week! Is there anyplace else that you like to go?"
They all looked at her. "Go?"
"Yes, just for a change of scenery, or to walk and take some exercise." When they still looked blank, Molly went on. "At the army post, the other wives and I would sometimes walk down near the river. It was beautiful there . . . very open and grassy and flat, with a grand view of the mountains. And there were butterflies all around in the tall grass. A wonderful place to walk or picnic."
"Mrs. Strong," said the oldest of the four. That was Mrs. Frost, Molly remembered. "As Mrs. Mitchell told you, we do not ever leave this street save for a daily trip to the mercantile. Twice a week is the trip to the dairy. We go from our homes to those places of business, and nowhere else. Ever."
"And armed men go with us when we do," said another.
"You saw the camp down below," said another of the wives. "It's filthy. It's dangerous. A man is killed down there at least once every week. Most of all, it's the loggers' place. They have their home and we have ours. And the two never cross."
"I see," Molly said quietly. She glanced at her husband and then back to the women, and tried to smile. "Thank you for telling me."
"We'll help you get your house arranged, as soon as your wagon is brought up," said another. "Good day to you."
"Good day," said Molly, and watched them go.
She began to follow William and Mr. Mitchell back down the road that led to the lower level, where their wagon waited in front of the livery barn. Once again she caught sight of the tents and shacks of the hundreds of men living on the hillside and suddenly this place seemed like a not a home . . . but a nightmare.
Just the noise and the sight and even the smell of the place made Molly understand why the other women never left the street where they had their homes. It came to her just then that her husband, William, as the new sheriff, would have to go down there often. Alone.
And to think she'd been worried about the Indian tribes back in Idaho. Fort Lapwai now seemed like the height of peaceful, genteel living compared to Sawyerville.
CHAPTER THREE
Soon the wagon was brought up to the house, and Molly and William and a few of the other neighbor men spent the next couple of hours unloading it and bringing all of their furniture and dishes and other goods into the house. But after the wagon was gone and Molly was looking forward to arranging everything to her liking in her new home, she heard hoofbeats out in the road.
"Get your shawl, Molly," called William from outside of the house. "We're going to ride down to the camp with a few of the men right now."
She paused in the doorway. William swung up on his little spotted mare, Butterfly, and stood holding the reins of Big Joe. "Now?" she asked, aware that her voice quavered a little. "We're going down into that – that campsite – now?"
"Yes. Now. It's Sunday, so most of the men will be in the camp for their day off. I want them to know who I am and who my wife is. And we have to get to know the place, too. Put on a shawl. We'll go now."
Molly did as he asked and went to find a yellow cotton shawl in one of her trunks. She would ride down there with her husband if he wished her to do so, but she would never be riding down there alone.
Not ever.
Molly swung up on Big Joe, and then she and William and Mr. Mitchell and a couple of other men from the town – foremen from the camp, she seemed to remember – rode with them. Molly tried to keep herself at the center of the group and began to wish she'd brought the shotgun she'd once used against some rogue Indians at the fort. But William had his lying right in front of him across the saddle and carried his sidearm in a holster, and the other three men were armed with pistols as well.
The five of them rode down the main street, in front of the line of stores and businesses. "Sawyerville is one of the largest logging camps anywhere," Mr. Mitchell told them. "With the untouched softwood forests in this part of the country, there's more lumber than anyone could ever take. That means endless work for any man who wants it. As you'll see, it's attracted hundreds of loggers."
The riders guided their horses down the switchback that led to the third and lowest of the three roads. That one ran through the center of the tents and shacks, about halfway between the main road above and the river down below.
As they rode into the camp itself, Molly saw a row of large wooden buildings near the center. "Those are the two cook shacks," said Mr. Mitchell, "and a few bunkhouses. But most of the men would rather just live in these tents, or in the shacks they build themselves. That way, they have a little privacy to do as they like."
There seemed to be an endless number of dirty canvas tents and creaky little wooden shacks down here among the huge trees. The smell of smoke and mud and burnt beans was thick in the damp air. Even the horses kept snorting as they walked along. But what Molly found overwhelming was the noise. She'd heard the yelling and swearing when she'd ridden into town, but down here it was tremendous.
Mr. Mitchell had given up trying to talk to them as they rode along. Even he could not be heard above the ceaseless yelling and shouting throughout the entire camp. How did any of these men sleep? Some of them stopped to stare at the strangers riding through their camp – especially at Molly – but they quickly went back to whatever they were doing.
Molly could see from the way they walked that some of the men had been drinking, and she saw a couple of them sitting up against trees or sprawled out in front of their tents as though barely conscious. But no one seemed to care.
As the group of riders continued down the road, they came upon a fistfight off to one side. Two men punched and beat and wrestled each other while surrounded by a huge crowd of shouting, screaming men. A few of them were taking bets. Molly could see money changing hands. The two fighting men were bloodied and staggering, but showed no signs of giving up.
William simply watched the fight as the five of them rode past. A few of the men turned and glanced up at him, and at Molly, but then quickly turned back to the fight.
Farther into the
camp, it was a little quieter – but not much. These men sat around near their tents on makeshift benches playing cards and dice, and drinking, and arguing, and swearing, and occasionally fighting.
Guns were everywhere. Molly saw pistols and rifles and shotguns. It looked as though every man owned at least one, in addition to the heavy knives they wore in scabbards at their belts.
All of the men, she noticed, seemed to be whip-thin but very strong from the very hard work they were doing. They wore tough work pants and heavy cotton shirts – or just their red flannel union suits, like long one-piece underwear – with the pants over top, along with suspenders on the pants. All of them had huge heavy boots with what looked like spikes on the bottom of the thick soles. That would keep them from slipping on the wet forest floor or even on the logs themselves, Molly guessed.
Finally they switched back again, riding single file so they could follow a narrow foot path just a few feet from the river's edge. The river itself was at least a hundred yards wide at this point and tumbled over rocks near the center to create permanent whitewater rapids.
But the rocks weren't the only thing in the river. The water along both sides was jammed with huge logs, and Molly caught her breath as she saw that a dozen or so men were actually walking on top of the logs in their spiked boots and pushing the logs with what looked like long spears, forcing them away from the shoreline and letting the current take them on down to the west and to the ocean.
"Once the logs get down to the Pacific Ocean – about twenty-five miles west of here – they'll be lashed into huge rafts and pushed south along the coast by tugboats to the sawmills," Mr. Mitchell called to them. "Then the logs will be cut into lumber for houses and barns and furniture and ships. But it all starts right here in these forests."