Go West, Young Man

Book 1: Go West, Young Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

Join an epic cross-country journey on the Oregon Trail  set just before the start of the Civil War. Two brave, pioneering families will head West and confront hardships and triumph, in this spellbinding saga from the legendary bestselling authors… Missouri, 1860. Rumors of war between the North and South are spreading across the land. In rural Green County, many of the farmers are already choosing sides. But not John Zachary. His loyalties lie with his family first—and his heart is telling him to go west. Hoping to build a new life in the fertile valleys of Oregon, he convinces his best friend, Emmett Braxton, to pack up their families and join him on a wagon train across the Oregon Trail. The journey will be long and hard. The physical hardships and grueling mental challenges will bring out the best in some—and the worst in others. But with the guidance of an experienced wagon master and scout, they are determined to reach their destiny, no matter how high the cost . . . Twenty-seven wagons. Twenty-seven different hopes and dreams. This sprawling epic novel from a master storyteller captures the beauty and danger of the American West—and the pioneer spirit of those who tamed it . . .

Release date: April 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

John Zachary walked into the post office in Springfield, Missouri, hoping a letter he had been waiting for might have arrived. The postmaster, Sam Gunter, answered his question before John had a chance to ask. “Howdy, John. That letter you’ve been looking for came yesterday.” He went over to a box that held all the mail for the farms out James Bridge Road and sorted through it until he came to the one letter addressed to John Zachary. “Must be important,” Gunter remarked, hoping John might share the content.

“Much obliged, Sam,” Zachary replied. “Yeah, it’s kinda important—some information a fellow is sendin’ me about growin’ better corn.” That was not entirely untrue, but he wasn’t ready to tell Sam, or anyone else he knew in town, what he had in mind to do. And as if on cue, Sam then brought up one of the main reasons.

“You know, if you’re gonna be in town later this evening, the mayor’s holding a meeting to discuss the future of our town, what with there being more and more talk about the possibility of the southern states seceding from the Union. A lot of us think it’d be a good idea to know where everybody stands if it comes to war.”

“I reckon I already know where I stand,” John said. “I won’t be at the meetin’, but you can tell the mayor I stand for the Union and against war. So I sure hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I suspect that’s where most of us stand,” Sam allowed. “But there’s liable to be some trouble in Greene County ’cause there’s lots of folks with southern ties.”

“You may be right, Sam.” John said and started walking toward the door. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ back. Emmett’s waitin’ for me at Simpson’s.”

“Tell him about the meeting,” Sam said.

“I will. I’ll tell him,” John assured him. He left the post office and went directly to Simpson’s General Merchandise where his friend Emmett Braxton was waiting with the wagon. The two men had been best friends since their school days and for the past five years had worked to raise crops on adjoining farms. When he reached the store, Emmett was sitting on the wagon seat, waiting for him. John’s son, Johnny, and Emmett’s son, Skeeter, were chasing each other around and around the wagon. Seeing the boys playing caused John to think, I don’t want their future to promise nothing more than to be sent off to fight a war as soon as they’re old enough.

“Did you get your letter?” Emmett asked.

“Yep,” John answered, holding the letter up for him to see.

“Ain’tcha gonna open it?”

“Yep,” John answered again. “You drive the horses and I’ll read it on the way home.” He called the boys then. “Hop on, boys. We’re headin’ home.”

“It looks like a helluva letter,” Emmett commented. “How many pages is that?”

“A lot,” John answered, already reading and not bothering to stop and count the pages.

Emmett pulled the empty envelope out of John’s hand and read, “From Mr. Clayton Scofield. Is that the fellow that leads the wagon train? The wagon master, I guess you call him.”

“Yeah, he’s the guide.” After reading the first three pages, John started informing his friend of the contents. “Boy, he didn’t leave anything out. It’s all right here in this letter, everything you need to make the trip; how to equip your wagon, what supplies and how much of ’em you need to take you through, how far you go each day, and everything else.”

Emmett shook his head, marveling at his friend’s excitement over the prospect of traveling in a wagon all the way across the continent to Oregon country. He couldn’t really say John was making a bad decision. He couldn’t blame him for leaving his poorly producing farm here for land in the fertile Willamette Valley the emigrants talked about. He wondered if he shouldn’t pack up his family and go with him. John had talked so enthusiastically about it for the last couple of months, it was hard not to catch some of his excitement. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but sometimes he felt a little resentment for the fact that John didn’t consult him about the wisdom of dumping everything here they had worked so hard to build before making a final decision. But they were best friends, so he had to wish him well.

They stopped at Emmett’s farm first and unloaded his purchases. “Why don’t you and Sarah and the kids come on over to the house with me?” John suggested. “We can all tell Marcy she can start gettin’ ready ’cause we’re goin’ to Oregon for sure.”

“I don’t know, John,” Emmett said. “You and Marcy might wanna do some serious talkin’ or something.”

“Nonsense,” Sarah commented in her typically blunt fashion, “we’ll go and help you get excited.” She paused and gazed at a grinning John Zachary, then added, “It may be too late for that, judging by that silly expression on your face.” So, Sarah, Skeeter, and Lou Ann scrambled up on the wagon with Johnny behind John and Emmett, and they continued on to the Zachary farm.

“Evenin’, Marcy,” Sarah sang out when the wagon pulled up by the back door and Marcy came outside to meet them. “John invited us all to come to dinner, so I hope you’re cookin’ something good.”

“I’ll just pour another quart or two of water in the soup and that’ll have to do,” Marcy answered, accustomed to Sarah’s japing. “What is the occasion for this visit?”

“We’ve come to help you celebrate,” Sarah replied. “John got that letter you were waitin’ for.”

Marcy’s eyes lit up in excitement upon hearing that news. She looked at once toward her husband. “The letter came?” He answered with a nod and a grin. “Well, hallelujah,” she declared, “I guess we’re goin’ to Oregon!” She took hold of Sarah’s arm. “Well, come on in the house. It’s cold out here.”

When he saw John deliberating over whether or not to unhitch the horses, Emmett said, “Come on, I’ll help you unhitch. We’ll just walk back home. Those two women get to gabbin’ and there ain’t no tellin’ how long we’ll be here. No sense in lettin’ your horses stand hitched up.” It was not a long walk back to their house, anyway. It was just a matter of cutting across a corn field that separated the two homesteads. When they returned to the house, they found the two wives chattering away about the adventure of the cross-country trip and the new life to be anticipated in that faraway land of Oregon. They also noticed that Marcy had seen fit to bring out one of the apple cider jugs for the celebration.

While the women were shuffling through the pages of Clayton Scofield’s instructions and recommendations, and the kids were chasing all over the house, only Emmett had concerns about his friend’s decision. While he forced a smile to stay in place on his face, he was troubled by his own indecisions during the months before when John talked about it so much. He now found himself regretting his hesitancy and thinking that maybe he should have followed John’s lead once more. When his wife noticed his seeming lack of enthusiasm, she asked, “What’s wrong, hon?”

He looked at her and shook his head, then spoke softly, so no one else would hear, “I don’t know. I think maybe it woulda been smart if we had signed up to go with ’em.”

“Maybe you should take a look at this letter and see all the things you would need and what you’d have to do to our wagon, and how long that trip would be,” she suggested. When he showed no incentive to do so, she asked Marcy for the first few pages, since she had already read them. She handed the pages to Emmett. “Might as well see what you’re missin’.”

Emmett shrugged and started reading the first page. It started out: Dear Mr. Zachary, I’m happy to hear that you and your family, and the Braxton family, have decided to join our train, leaving Independence, Missouri on April 1, 1860. That was as far as he got before he looked up to find all conversation stopped and all eyes upon him, faces waiting expectantly. He looked at his wife, who was grinning ear to ear. He looked at John then, whose smile was equal to that of Sarah’s. “You son of a gun. You signed me up, too.”

“Hell, I knew you’d wanna go. It just takes you longer to realize what’s best for you. And I knew—hell, we all knew—you wouldn’t let me ride off without you.”

Emmett’s grin was now wider than anybody’s. “I oughta let you go out there by yourself and see how you make it without me to keep you straight. Gimme the rest of that letter. There’s a heck of a lot to do between now and April first.” He paused then when he remembered. “’Course, I’ll have to talk this over with Sarah first. She might not wanna make a trip like that.”

“Shoot,” John scoffed, “she’s the one who told me to put your name on my letter.”

The drop-in visit from the Braxtons turned out to be an all-day affair that lasted well into suppertime and the sudden demise of two fat chickens that ended up in the pot. Cornbread to go with the chicken required a good portion of the cornmeal just purchased at Simpson’s that morning as well. It would be the first of many days the two families would work to prepare for the journey of their lives. Paying strict attention to the letter from Scofield, the two men fixed their wagons just as he recommended and followed the specified guidelines for quantities of food and provisions. Over the two-month time before the first of April, they sold their farms and furniture. Selling the furniture was the hardest part, but there was no room in the wagons for anything beyond clothes to wear and things necessary to eat and prepare meals. Sometimes it was difficult to believe they could accomplish everything that had to be done. However, three days prior to April first found the two families driving their wagons into the town of Independence, hoping their decision was a sensible one. They had made an appointment to meet Mr. Scofield on the morning of the twenty-eighth, at the Henry House Hotel, to finalize any agreements and pay any advance charges.

While the Braxtons and the Zacharys were bedding their families down for the night, the man they had come to meet was passing his time in a card game in the Gateway Saloon. “I swear, sonny, I know I’ve had a helluva lot to drink since I sat down at this table, but I don’t reckon I could get drunk enough to where I couldn’t see that card come off the bottom of the deck. I ain’t sore enough to wanna shoot you for cheatin’, but that’s the reason I’ve just throwed my cards in the last few times it’s your deal.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” the young gambler exclaimed. “You’d best watch who you’re callin’ a cheat, old man. I don’t take that offa nobody.”

“Like I said,” Scofield responded, “ain’t no use gettin’ your feathers ruffled. I’m just tryin’ to give you a little friendly advice, that’s all. But if you’re thinkin’ about makin’ it as a gambler strictly by sleight of hand, you’ve got a helluva lot more practicing to do.”

“Why you old drunk, I’m thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ an extra air hole right between your eyes. A man don’t accuse another man of cheatin’ unless he’s ready to back it up. You’re wearin’ a handgun, so I’m givin’ you a chance to prove you can handle one.” With his eyes locked on Scofield’s, he stood up and pushed his chair back. The steady din of saloon conversation stopped immediately as it became apparent to everyone in the room that a challenge was about to be issued. A duel between two card players was not an uncommon occurrence in the Gateway Saloon, so the regular patrons remained silent in anticipation of the challenge to follow. They were not disappointed. “Old man,” the young gambler pronounced clearly, “you’re a no-account drunken liar and a damn yellow-bellied coward to boot. I’ll have you take a knee and beg my forgiveness or stand up to me and go for that handgun you’re wearin’.”

“Now, there you go, tryin’ to make a name for yourself by shootin’ me,” Scofield responded. “If you’re as bad at gun-fightin’ as you are at cheatin’ at cards, you ain’t likely to last long enough to ever get to my age. And if you shot me, what good would that do your reputation? Hell, I ain’t got no name as a gunfighter. You just called me a no-account old drunk. You ain’t gonna get very famous for shootin’ an old drunk.” Scofield got up on his feet, holding onto the edge of the table to steady himself. “Damn,” he swore, “that likker’s hit me harder’n I thought. I might have to set down again to keep this saloon from rockin’ back and forth.” He looked the young gambler in the eye and said, “I’ll not draw on you, young feller, so go on and find yourself another game.”

The young man was not to be denied, however, and was not willing to be bluffed by the wobbly old man. No matter what Scofield had said, a kill was a kill, and that’s all anybody would talk about. And this would be so easy he’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity. He stepped up in Scofield’s face and poked his shoulder with his forefinger. “You ain’t talkin’ your way outta this, big mouth.” The last word had barely dropped from his lips when Scofield’s Colt Navy Model six-shooter landed solidly against the side of his face, knocking him unconscious and breaking his jaw in the process.

Clayton Scofield plopped back down in the chair and shook his head slowly, as if afraid it might roll off his neck. “Damn” was his only comment when Pete, the bartender, walked over to take a look at the unconscious man on the floor.

“I declare, Scofield, it’s been over a year since you were in here,” Pete said. “Don’t look like you’ve changed a helluva lot.” He paused to see if Scofield was even aware of his comment. When it appeared that he wasn’t, or that he didn’t give a damn, one way or the other, Pete shrugged and asked a couple of the spectators to give him a hand. He directed them to carry the injured man out the door and deposit him on the front porch of the saloon. Back to Scofield then, he said, “Best pick up your money and let somebody else take that chair.” He glanced at the remaining two card players and they both nodded vigorously. Scofield looked to be a handful, drunk or sober, and the recent altercation with the young gambler verified it.

Scofield didn’t protest. He was well aware of his incapacity after consuming such a large quantity of rye whiskey at a single sitting. He struggled to his feet once again, and with Pete to give him a helping hand, he made it over to a small table against the back wall. He settled heavily into the chair and smiled up at Pete. “’Preciate it. I’ll just set here a little while. Do I owe you any money?”

“No, you’re paid up. You need me to bring a spittoon over here for you?”

“Nope,” Scofield answered with certainty, knowing that the sick part of his drunk would strike him in the morning, most likely. “I won’t be here long.” He felt confident in saying that, thinking that Clint was probably looking in all the saloons for him already.

“Might be a good idea to get outta here as soon as you feel like you can make it,” Pete advised. “You clobbered that feller pretty good, but when his head stops ringin’, I expect he’s gonna be lookin’ for you. And you ain’t in no shape for a shoot-out.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Scofield responded with another foolish smile. “I’ll just set here and rest a spell.”

On the street in front of the saloon, young Clint Buchanan pulled up to a stop at the hitching rail when he saw a black Morgan tied there. Seeing the prone body lying on one side of the porch, he at once thought his chances looked favorable for finding his uncle inside. He stepped down from the saddle and tied his horses up at the rail. Then, out of habit, he drew his Henry rifle from his saddle sling. He liked to keep it with him because the Henry rifle had just been manufactured and it was not easy to come by one. He stepped up on the porch, where he paused for a moment to observe the man lying there. After a few moments, he saw signs of life as the man struggled to come to. I hope you ain’t got nothing to do with Uncle Clayton, Clint thought as he walked past him and went into the saloon.

Pete glanced up from the bar when the tall, strapping young man walked in. He was a stranger, but there was something familiar about him. He looked more closely as he approached the bar. Then it struck him. He pointed to the little table in the back. “He’s settin’ right back there at the table, Clint.”

“Much obliged,” Clint said. “Has he caused any trouble?”

“Well, maybe a little bit,” Pete replied, still marveling at how a year had served to complete the rugged image of a competent young man.

“That fellow lyin’ on the porch?” Clint asked and Pete nodded. Then he quickly told Clint about the incident during the card game. “And the other two players, they didn’t say anything about that fellow cheatin’?” Pete shook his head. “You reckon he was?” Clint asked.

“I expect that he was,” Pete admitted. “But the other two fellers in the game are in here playin’ cards all the time and ain’t neither one of ’em likely to call anybody on it.” He shook his head and grinned. “But not ol’ Scofield. I expect you’ve got a fulltime job tryin’ to keep him outta trouble, don’tcha?”

“No, for a fact, I don’t,” Clint answered, “just between runs. Uncle Clayton won’t usually take a drink of whiskey when we’re on the trail. All the way from here to Oregon, he’s sober as a judge. Oh, there are some places when he feels the need to have a drink, but even then, he won’t take more than two shots. That’s just his way. The only time he wants to tie one on is when we get back here and then he makes up for all that time he’s done without. He’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow and we’re supposed to meet with some people who wanna go to Oregon with us. I expect I’d best get him back to the hotel. Does he owe you any money?”

“No, sir,” Pete said. “He’s all paid up. You need any help gettin’ him outta here? He drank an awful lot of whiskey.”

Clint thanked him just the same, then walked back to get his uncle. Scofield opened his eyes when he heard his nephew approach the table. Seeing who it was, he fashioned a satisfied smile and announced, “Clint, I’m drunk as a skunk.”

“I expect so,” Clint replied. “Can you walk?”

“I’ll give her a try,” he answered and tried to stand up, but found he needed help from his nephew to get up from the chair. “I ain’t so sure,” he confessed and tried to take a step forward, only to start to fall face forward. “When they built this dang saloon, they shoulda used a level on the floor. It’s hard to walk when it’s on a slant like this floor’s on.”

“No matter,” Clint said as he quickly laid his rifle on the table, ducked down and caught Scofield on his right shoulder, then straightened up. He settled his load on his shoulder, then picked up his rifle and headed for the door.

“Good night all,” Scofield slurred cheerfully over Clint’s shoulder, as he was carried past the bar.

“I want you to be real quiet now,” Clint told him. “Don’t say another word until I get you on your horse. Can you do that?”

“Anything you say, Clint,” Scofield slurred.

When Clint walked out the door, he found he didn’t have to worry about his uncle making a sound. Scofield was fast asleep. The injured gambler was now up on one knee, gingerly feeling his broken jaw with his fingers. When he saw Clint, he managed to spit out, “Is that him?”

“Yep,” Clint answered. “That’s the old coot who busted your jaw. He’s dead, so you might as well go get that jaw fixed up. I’ll take care of this’un.”

“Whaddaya gonna do with him?” The gambler forced through clenched teeth.

“Bury him,” Clint replied and slid his uncle off his shoulder to lie across his saddle. Wasting no more time then, he rode away from the saloon, leading Scofield’s horse toward the hotel and the stable behind it.

Morning arrived a good bit earlier than Scofield had planned to greet it. He woke Clint up with his frantic efforts to pull his trousers and boots on in his haste to make it to the outhouse behind the hotel. He didn’t waste a moment to consider the thunder-mug under the bed, knowing every evil he had trapped inside his body the night before would not be denied its escape. Clint had to get up to close the door his uncle had left wide open before he could go back to bed and try to go to sleep again. He finally dozed off, thinking how much he missed the freedom of sleeping on the open prairie.

Much to Clint’s surprise, he was allowed to sleep until well past sunup when Scofield, fully dressed, roused him out. “Time to crawl outta them blankets, sleepyhead. Breakfast is cookin’ and you’re still layin’ in the bed.”

“Well, if you ain’t somethin’,” Clint replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “When did you come back in to get dressed?”

“About two hours ago. You was sleepin’ like a baby. I went down to the washroom and cleaned up. And right now, I feel like I could eat half a buffalo. They got a nice outhouse, a two-seater, and that worked out real nice for me, because I was shipping outta both ends at the same time.”

“I’m mighty glad you’re feelin’ so good this mornin’,” Clint commented. “’Cause I was a little worried about you last night. I thought for a while there that I was gonna have to do the talkin’ to these fellows from Springfield. And talkin’ ain’t my strong suit.”

“Well, get your boots on and we’ll go get us a big breakfast,” Scofield said. “I mean your moccasins.” Clint didn’t wear boots. “We’re supposed to meet those fellers at ten o’clock at the Henry House Hotel.”

For their breakfast, they went to the same place they had eaten supper the night before, a tiny little establishment called Mama’s Kitchen. The hotel they spent the night in was small and offered no dining room, but Mama’s Kitchen was only a short walk away. They considered having breakfast at the Henry House but decided their dining room might be too fancy for a couple of trail-hardened adventurers like themselves. The food at Mama’s was to their liking, as Scofield put it, and it was bound to be a helluva lot more reasonable in cost. So, after a leisurely breakfast, they returned to their hotel. It was time to go to the meeting with the two men from Springfield.

“Mr. Scofield?” John Zachary asked when they walked into the Henry House lobby. He had been standing near the front door, watching for the wagon guide. When Scofield pleaded guilty, Zachary introduced himself and they shook hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, sir,” Zachary said. Then he signaled a man standing near a side entrance and he immediately hurried over to join them. “This is Emmett Braxton, Emmett’s the other party I wrote you about.”

“Glad to meetcha,” Scofield said. “This young feller with me is Clint Buchanan. He’ll be ridin’ scout on this crossin’.”

“Mr. Zachary, Mr. Braxton,” Clint said politely and stepped forward to shake their hands.

“Why don’t we go over there where we can sit down and talk about this trek across the country,” Braxton suggested, knowing there were a great many questions he and Zachary wanted to ask. They went across the parlor to a sitting area, and the meeting began. “To start with, John and I have definitely made the decision to make this journey. Right, John?”

“Absolutely,” Zachary replied. “We’re goin’, for sure, and accordin’ to your letter, you’re gettin’ ready to lead a wagon train out to Oregon Territory any day now.”

“Well, sir,” Scofield replied, “That’s a fact. We’ve got some folks that are ready to go, waitin’ on the prairie across the river. Some of ’em have been there for a week, but I’m just waitin’ to give the grass a little time to grow. I set a date to leave on April the first and that’s day after tomorrow. I’ll be mighty happy to have you join our train, if you can get your wagons ready to roll by then.” He paused to glance from Zachary to Braxton, trying to make a quick judgment of the seriousness of their intent. “Where are your wagons now? And your families, are they here in Independence?”

“Both families are packed up and ready to go,” Braxton answered him. “They’re parked down at the river, near the ferry slips. We were waitin’ till we talked with you before we crossed over the river. So, I reckon we’ll go ahead and cross over as soon as we leave here and join your wagons on the other side of the river.”

Scofield had to chuckle. “I swear, I thought you were stayin’ here in the hotel.”

Zachary laughed with him. “No, I just suggested we meet here because it was the only hotel I knew the name of here in town.”

Scofield laughed again and declared, “Me and Clint, here, will try to get you and your families out to Oregon as fast and as safely as we can. But you need to understand, this ain’t no pleasure trip. There’s gonna be hardships and maybe dangers we might have to face. But if a family’s strong and willin’ to make some sacrifices, there ain’t no reason they can’t make it. And what’s waitin’ for you on the other end of the journey is worth it. I sent you a list of everything you’ll need to make it for four to six months. I hope you treated that list just like a Bible, especially the part about the wagons. On the route we’re takin’, a light farm wagon does the best job over the flat prairie land we’ll be travelin’. And like I told you in my letter, my trains are with horses or mules. Lotta folks say oxen are better, they got stronger pull and they can go longer without water, and oxen are cheaper to buy than horses or mules. But on the route I’ll be leadin’ you on, horses do just fine, and there’s plenty of water along the way. Oxen are too slow to suit me. Most trains that use oxen make about fifteen miles a day. That’s the same as we’ll make with our horses, maybe a little more. The difference is it’ll take oxen all damn day and half the night to do it. We’ll make our fifteen and stop at five o’clock in the afternoon for supper and rest. It’ll make your journey a whole lot easier to take.”

“You don’t have to sell us on that. Emmett and I are both drivin’ horses. How many wagons do you think you’re gonna end up with?” Zachary asked.

“The same number I start out with,” Scofield replied, then quickly chuckled to show he was joking. “Right now, I’ll have twenty-seven wagons, counting you and Mr. Braxton. We might pick up a few more before we pull out day after tomorrow and we might not. But twenty-seven is a good manageable number. I’ve led trains of a hundred-and-fifty wagons, and I’d a heap druther go with a smaller number. I think you and your family will find it a lot more comfortable, too.”

The meeting continued for quite some time until Zachary and Braxton ran out of questions. In the end, they shook hands with Scofield and Clint, and assured them they would be ready to join them on the day after tomorrow when the wagon train would roll out of Independence.

“Well, I expect John and I best get back to the wagons,” Emmett declared. “Marcy and Sarah will be wantin’ to get everything ready to travel.”

Scofield and Clint walked them to the front door. “Seem like nice people,” Clint commented to his uncle as they watched them depart.

“You’ll find out for sure after they’ve been on that trail for a few weeks,” Scofield replied.

Scofield and Clint showed up that afternoon on the prairie where a couple of circles of wagons were in camp. Off to the side, they saw the two wagons belonging to Zachary and Braxton. “I’m tickled to see they’ve got the right kind of wagons and horses to pull ’em,” Scofield said. “That’s a good start. If they’d showed up with oxen pullin’ them wagons, I’da told ’em they couldn’t go with us. We’ll go over and meet their families.” Clint didn’t bother to respond to the comment, knowing his uncle’s dislike for the slow-moving oxen. This, in spite of the fact that a lot of wagon masters would argue that oxen were superior to both horses and mules when encountering rough spots in the trail. He wheeled the Palouse gelding and followed his uncle toward the new members of Scofield’s train.

Standing next to his father, Johnny Zachary asked, “Why did they park ’em in a circle like that, Papa? Are they afraid of an Indian attack this close to Independence?” Overhearing his question, his mother, also curious, looked to her husband for his answer.

Zachary couldn’t help chuckling. “No, son, I don’t reckon they’re worried about Indians around here. I expect they’re more concerned about corrallin’ their stock, so they don’t go wanderin’ into town.”

Scofield pulled his hat off and waved to acknowledge their presence, as he and Clint rode across the wide campground to join them. Emmett Braxton walked over to join John and his son. “Well, at least he knows we’re here. Reckon he’ll tell us if we’re supposed to circle up,” he said to Zachary.

“I reckon,” Zachary answered. “But I don’t see any sense in puttin’ everybody to the trouble of movin’ their wagons