The oregon trail, p.1
The Oregon Trail, page 1
Look for these exciting Western series from bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone
The Mountain Man
Luke Jensen: Bounty Hunter
Brannigan’s Land
The Jensen Brand
Smoke Jensen: The Early Years
Preacher and MacCallister
Fort Misery
The Fighting O’Neils
Perley Gates
MacCoole and Boone
Guns of the Vigilantes
Shotgun Johnny
The Chuckwagon Trail
The Jackals
The Slash and Pecos Westerns
The Texas Moonshiners
Stoneface Finnegan Westerns
Ben Savage: Saloon Ranger
The Buck Trammel Westerns
The Death and Texas Westerns
The Hunter Buchanon Westerns
Will Tanner, Deputy US Marshal
Old Cowboys Never Die
Go West, Young Man
THE OREGON TRAIL
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2024 by J. A. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like the Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
KENSINGTON BOOKS and the WWJ steer head logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4982-0 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4037-3
Chapter 1
“Who is it, son?” Garland Scofield called out to his son, Robert, who was standing at the kitchen door. “I hope it ain’t somebody I’m gonna have to get up for.” He, his brother, Clayton, and his nephew, Clint Buchanan, were still sitting around the supper table, drinking coffee. Garland’s wife, Irene, his daughter, Janie, and Ruby Nixon were clearing the table and getting ready to wash the dishes. The men had just had a full day recovering some horses that had wandered away from a herd they had moved to new pasture, and Garland didn’t want to get up to talk to anybody.
“It’s Spud Williams,” Robert answered his father. “He’s ridin’ up to the back door.”
“Well, good,” Garland said. “I don’t have to get up for Spud. Tell him to come on in.”
Robert held the door open for the round little man who removed his hat when he stepped inside out of respect for the ladies. “Hope I ain’t intrudin’, Miz Scofield, I just wanted to tell Clayton that I got his message sent to Peter Moreland in Independence.”
“Of course not,” Irene said, “come in, Spud. Are you just getting back from Sacramento?”
“Yes, ma’am, just this minute,” Spud answered.
“You must be hungry,” Irene replied. “We’re just getting ready to dump the leftovers, so you got here just in time. Set yourself down at the table and we’ll fix you a plate.”
“I don’t know, Irene,” Clayton japed. “You sure you wanna cheat the hogs outta them leftovers?”
When Irene gave Clayton a scolding frown, Spud said, “Pay him no mind, Miz Scofield, I never do. And when we start back from Independence with another wagon train, I’ll have all kinds of opportunities to spike his food with gunpowder.”
“So that’s what causes all that rumblin’ I hear in my belly when we’re on the trail,” Clayton said, chuckling. “I wondered why Clint never complained about it.”
Ruby set a cup of coffee on the table for him and said, “Here’s your coffee, Spud. Janie’s fillin’ a plate for you.” She looked at Clint then. “You want more coffee?” He shook his head. She aimed at Clayton and Garland. “Anyone?”
“Thank you, Ruby,” Spud said. It always did his heart good to see how compassionately Ruby had been accepted into the Scofield family, much as they had Clint many years before when Clayton found him living in a Crow village. He wondered if any other young woman had suffered the loss of two husbands on a single crossing of the country before, like she had. It seemed an odd thing to look at her experience as good luck. But in a way, Spud thought you could call it that because it caused her to end up with this family. And to him, that looked like the place she ought to be. At first he, like many others on that wagon train, thought Ruby and Clint had a special attraction for each other, but it proved to be more like brother and sister. His wandering thoughts were corralled then by a question from Clayton.
“That operator send that whole message, just like I wrote it?” Clayton asked.
“Well, he said he did, and he charged me for every word of it,” Spud replied. “I just had to take his word for it. I sure couldn’t understand that clickety-clack he was doin’ on that thing.”
“I wanna be sure Moreland knows we’re gonna get to Independence by the fifteenth of March, so I can have a couple of weeks to get our wagon ready and meet the folks Moreland’s signed up to go. That’s about what it took me and Clint to get ready for an April first departure last year. I want this one to be a good one ’cause I ain’t plannin’ to make another’n after this ’un.”
“That’s what you said last year,” his brother was quick to remind him.
“I know, but this year is gonna do it for me in that business. Hell, look around us. This valley ain’t got that much cheap land left. Folks ain’t got the fever like they did when I first started guidin’ wagon trains out here. And the way the railroads are layin’ track, it ain’t gonna be long before folks back east can take a train out here. I’m gettin’ too blame old to put up with the hardship of the trail. I’ve got to spend what time I’ve got left to helpin’ you keep this ranch growin’.” He reached over and poked Spud on the shoulder. “Besides, when Spud told me he was quittin’ me after this next run, I figured it must be time for me to move on to homesteadin’, too.”
An interested listener, Ruby wondered what plans Clint Buchanan might have after he helped Clayton and Spud bring another train of hopeful settlers out to the Willamette Valley. Unlike Spud or Clayton, Clint was still a young man. She found herself hoping he would remain here with his uncles and work with the horses and cows. He was the dearest friend she had and she didn’t like the thought of losing him. Finally, she asked him, “When are you leaving to go back to Independence?”
“First of February,” Clint answered. “That’ll be next Tuesday. Uncle Clayton wants to plan for two months to make the trip on horseback. It normally wouldn’t take but about a month and a half, but this time of year, we’re gonna catch a lot of snow, and we’ll lose some time huntin’ for food.”
“That’s just a week away,” she replied, “the first of February. When I think of some of those mountain roads we came over on our way out here, I don’t see how you could even get through some of those passes.”
“On horseback, we’ll be able to ride around some of those wagon roads,” he said. “We’ve always managed to find a way to get around some of the worst spots. Like Uncle Clayton said, though, this is our last go-round with the wagons, and I want to say goodbye to Yellow Sky and Mourning Song and Broken Wing if he’s there. Then I reckon we’re back here for good.”
“The three of you better be careful,” she cautioned. “Your Uncle Garland needs you to help him run this ranch.” She paused, then slipped, “I’ll miss you . . . all three of you,” she quickly added.
“We’ll miss you, too,” he replied. There followed an awkward silence until he said he’d best get moving if he was going to get any work done on his cabin tonight. “I’m hopin’ to get the inside finish on the walls before we have to head out for Independence. I’m tryin’ to make it look more like a house, instead of a huntin’ cabin.”
“How long have you been working on that cabin?”
“This is the third year, since I first built it.” He chuckled. “I thought they’d kick me outta the big house before now, but they didn’t.”
She laughed with him. “I’m just wondering how long it’ll be before they kick me out. They’ve treated me so nice since you brought me home with you and Clayton, after Cal was killed. But I can’t expect them to keep me forever.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he quickly objected. “They’ve accepted you like family, and they know your husband was a friend of mine. So you’re stuck with us from now on. Besides, everybody in the whole family is crazy about you.”
* * *
The days that followed were spent in great part on preparation for the challenging trip across the divide in the midst of wintertime. It is a trip that Garland Scofield maintains is undeniable proof that his brother and his nephew, and Spud Williams too, were certifiably insane. Clayton never tried to refute the claim, but said that, unfortunately, wagon master was one of only a few things he was good at. So his inclination had been to stay with it until he thought he couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t admit the fact that he had to rely on the young eyes and skill of nephew Clint Buchanan, but it was a secret he never tried to hide from himself.
Always of concern in planning the upcoming trip was the condition of their horses. They all three had favorite horses, but a trip across the country they would be crossing in the dead of winter could tear the heart out of a good horse. So they were giving special attention to the condition of their hooves and any signs of a lack of spirit. Each man would lead a packhorse that was equal in condition to the one he rode, in case something happened to his favorite horse. Clint declared his Palouse gelding he called Biscuit in prime shape and ready to get started. Clayton made the same judgment for the dark Morgan he favored. Spud decided his dun gelding he’d ridden the past couple of years was showing signs of aging recently, so he decided he’d best not make the trip this year. He picked out a younger bay gelding with Clint’s help.
“You gonna name him?” Clint asked Spud when he decided on the bay. Spud looked at him as if he didn’t understand. So Clint said, “I call my horse Biscuit. Uncle Clayton calls that Morgan Blackie. What you gonna call that bay?”
“Horse,” Spud answered, “same as I called the dun.”
“That’s a good name for a horse,” Clint remarked. “Easy to remember.” I should have known better than to ask, he thought.
The week went by in no time at all and on Tuesday morning the three travelers were saddled up, packhorses loaded as planned. Only a light snow covered the ground, but there was promise of possibly more in the clouds lying low over the valley. Looking more like Eskimos than horsemen in their heavy buffalo coats, they climbed up into the saddle and said their goodbyes to Garland and the family. Clint motioned for Ruby to come to him, and she ran tiptoeing in the thin layer of snow. “Sorry, I meant to give you this before I left the house.” He handed her a key. When she seemed puzzled, he said, “It’s the key to my cabin, if you ever need it for anything. I sure won’t need it till I get back.”
“Is there something you need to have me do? Do you want me to check on it to make sure it’s all right?”
“No, nothing,” he replied. “It’s just in case you need it for something, maybe if you need to get away from my crazy family for some peaceful time alone. Whatever you might need it for, consider it yours.”
“All right,” she said, still confused. “I’ll take care of it for you. You come back safe, you hear?”
“I hear and obey,” he said with a grin. “See ya in the fall.” And he was off after Clayton and Spud.
She stood and watched until they rode out of the front gate before turning to tiptoe back to the porch, already feeling the void created by their departure. It would be a long time before next fall. She permitted her mind to fantasize for a few moments to wonder if giving her the key to his cabin held an implied meaning. Like the giving of a ring, she thought. Surely he would have given some indication, if that was the reason behind it. Put it out of your mind, she warned herself. Don’t destroy a good friendship. She knew she could not willfully put it out of her hopes and wishes, however.
Watching her from the other side of the porch, Irene Scofield imagined she could feel the young woman’s emotions. She spoke softly so that only Garland standing next to her would hear. “You know, it’ll be a downright shame if those two don’t get married.”
Garland gave her a look of surprise. “What makes you say that? They ain’t give off no kinda sparks like that. Hell, they’s just good friends. They told you that.”
She reached up with a closed fist and tapped his forehead with her knuckles. “Men!” she huffed. “Hard as a rock.”
* * *
Upon their arrival in Independence, Missouri, they checked into the Henry House Hotel where three rooms were reserved for them. It was close to suppertime by the time they parked their saddlebags and rifles in their rooms. They went straight from there to the stable where they made arrangements to leave their horses as well as their packs. Then instead of returning to the Henry House for supper, they went to a little place called Mama’s Kitchen where they always ate when in Independence. It was good, solid home cooking, and was always satisfying, but Clint was convinced his Uncle Clayton insisted on eating there because they always remembered him. The woman for whom the restaurant was named was Polly Jenkins. She, of course, did the cooking. Her husband, Tom, owned the place, and their two daughters waited tables and helped in the kitchen. Clint liked to eat there because the food was all right and it was a family affair. Maybe Polly remembered his uncle after a year’s absence, Clint couldn’t say, but she always pretended to, and it was no different this April.
“Lookee here, Mama,” Tom Jenkins sang out when they walked in. “Look who’s back.”
“Well, my stars,” Polly responded on cue and walked out of the kitchen to greet them. “We was just talkin’ about you the other day. Thought you mighta found another place to eat.”
“No, indeed,” Clayton said. “We just got back in Independence tonight, and this is the first place we hit. It takes half the year to lead a bunch of wagons out to the Willamette Valley, or we’da been back sooner.”
“Well, we’re glad to see you again,” Tom said. “Mama does a lot of braggin’ about how she cooks for the best wagon master in the country. We ’preciate your business. Pick you out a table and one of the girls will fix you up with some coffee.”
Grinning wide with satisfaction, Clayton picked out a table and sat down. “Beats me how these folks always remember a customer, don’t matter how long he’s been gone. They even remembered I was a wagon master and was bragging to their other customers about me.”
“Yep, that’s something, all right,” Clint remarked, content to let him think that, since he seemed to enjoy it so much.
Spud, on the other hand, was not of such a benevolent nature. “I swear, Clayton, them folks ain’t remembered you from doodle-dee-squat. Hell, you just told ’em you was a wagon master. They’re just tryin’ to get you to keep comin’ back. Can’t blame ’em for that. Oh, you mighta looked familiar, like they’d seen you somewhere before. But it mighta been on a Wanted poster at the post office, for all they knew.”
“Jealousy don’t look good on you, Spud,” Clayton replied.
“In less than two weeks, we’ll be back on the trail,” Spud said. “I’ll be doin’ the cookin’ again and I’ll try not to forget to tell you I remember you every time you set down to eat.”
