The Oregon Trail

Book 2: Go West, Young Man

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns; Action & Adventure Romance; Thrillers

Synopsis

JOHNSTONE COUNTRY: TRUST IN THE LORD—SOMETIMES HE’S ALL YOU GOT.

From national bestselling authors William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone, a pioneering journey into the raw beauty and untamed dangers of the unsettled West, where the legendary American spirit is fired in true grit and bold determination . . .

THE OREGON TRAIL

Wagon Master Clayton Scofield has led countless families across the dusty, wide-open territories of the West, helping the brave, sometimes reckless pioneers settle into new lives brimming with the promise of good lives. Accompanied by his nephew Clint Buchanan riding as scout and cook Spud Williams, Scofield’s latest trail finds him guiding a train of thirty wagons from Independence, Missouri, to the distant dream of Oregon.

It isn’t long before the pioneers fall prey to the hazards of the countryside—both natural and man-made. The rough currents of the Kansas River tears a family apart. A fur trapper threatens Scofield in a foolhardy attempt to win the affections of an uninterested lady. Kill crazy Lakota Sioux warriors attack wagon train and slaughter without mercy.

Scofield can’t remember the trail ride ever being this treacherous and unforgiving—and he knows there’s even worse things awaiting them along the far-reaching miles before they reach their destination . . .

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“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?” she asked.

“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.”

“Evenin’, my name’s Bessie. Everybody want coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint answered at once. “You came just in time. I thought I was gonna have to take a switch to my two young’uns here.”

She laughed. “Actin’ up, are they?”

“It’s gettin’ where I can’t take ’em out in public no more,” Clint said. “We’ll all take coffee and just bring us the special, whatever it is tonight.”

“Three specials,” she said, but waited for a few moments in case one of his companions wanted something different or at least wanted to know what the special was. No one said anything, so she shrugged and repeated, “Three specials.” Then she was off to the kitchen. She couldn’t know that for days they had been living off whatever game they happened upon. And they were to the point of not caring what the special was. It was bound to be better than what they had been eating. It turned out to be pork chops, so there were no complaints.

After the supper was consumed, the conversation turned to business. Clayton said he would go to Peter Moreland’s office in the morning to make all the arrangements for getting his wagon and selecting the horses to pull it. He would also pick up the money to buy the supplies they would need, so they could load the wagon. “I expect he’ll have a list for me of the families who have signed up for this trip. After you get everything you’re gonna need to cook with,” he said to Spud, “we’ll take the wagon across the river and pick a spot to circle our wagons. In the next week or so, we’ll get a chance to meet the folks we’re gonna be livin’ with for the next five or six months.”

“In other words,” Spud commented, “same as last year and the year before that. I’m damned glad this is my last year in this business.”

“What are you gonna do when we get back to the Willamette Valley?” Clint asked. He had never heard Spud talk about anything but driving the lead wagon and doing the cooking.

“Same thing you did, I reckon,” Spud replied, “build me a cabin on that piece of ground next to your’n. I know I ain’t gonna keep livin’ in my tent. Maybe I can help you raise them horses you’re always talkin’ about, since you’ll be usin’ the Scofield range to raise ’em. We’ll be neighbors, anyway, since I’ll be right down the creek from you and Ruby.”

“Me and Ruby?” Clint responded.

“I swear, Spud,” Clayton interrupted. “Every thought in your head just drops right outta your mouth.”

“What?” Spud replied. “Hell, ever’body knows them two young people is s’posed to get hitched. Ain’t that right?”

“I reckon me and Ruby don’t know it yet,” Clint declared. “Are we ready to go back to the hotel now? Or are you thinkin’ about stoppin’ in the Gateway Saloon before you turn in for the night?” He directed his question at Clayton. “Maybe they won’t remember the little ruckus you stirred up there last year.”

“Well, he was cheatin’, and he was so bad at it that I thought I was doin’ him a favor when I told him just how bad he was at it. Then it was his idea to wanna have a shootout with me, and me so drunk by then I could hardly stand up. So I just gave him a little tap on the side of his jaw.”

“And laid him out cold,” Clint finished for him. “Maybe we’d best just go on back to the hotel.”

After breakfast at Mama’s Kitchen the next morning, they walked up the street to a small white house that served as Peter Moreland’s law office. Realizing that Moreland probably didn’t start his day as early as they were accustomed to, they waited until eight thirty and were told by Moreland’s clerk that his boss wouldn’t arrive at the office until nine. “But Mr. Moreland has been expecting you to show up any day now,” Jacob Moore told them. “He said that you would probably show up a little early and that I should offer you some coffee while you wait.” To Clint, it sounded as if he said it hoping they would decline the offer. To his probable disappointment, however, they accepted.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Clayton said, “even though I just drank a gallon of it at Mama’s Kitchen.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Spud spoke up. “I’d appreciate a cup, young feller.”

So the three of them were sitting, drinking coffee, in Moreland’s waiting room when the attorney came in at a quarter after nine. “Well, Clayton Scofield,” he announced when he walked in. “I see you brought your partners with you. I’m guessing this young man is your nephew, Clint Buchanan. You’ll have to tell me who this other gentleman is.” He reached out to shake Clint’s hand.

“That’ll be Spud Williams,” Clayton said. “He drives my wagon and does the cookin’ for the three of us. And he ain’t no gentleman.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams,” Moreland said. “I see Jacob made you some coffee. I hope you haven’t been waiting very long. I stopped by the post office to see if there were any late commitments to go to Oregon with you.”

“How many have we got so far?” Clayton asked, since his contract with Moreland called for him to be paid by the wagon. He was most comfortable taking twenty-five to thirty wagons. That was not too many for him to handle, and it paid him enough to make a good profit after allowing for Clint and Spud. At least it had when he did all the work that Moreland was now doing for him this year.

“I’ve got twenty-eight confirmed with the deposit. They’ve signed their agreements on the wagon train rules and regulations, along with the restrictions on their wagons, and they’ve all gotten the suggested food and supplies list. If you want to come into my office, I’ll show you the file of applicants, and I’ll advance you the money for your initial expenses so you can get your wagon ready to roll. They all have agreed to arrive during the last week of March and not after April the first, or they lose their deposit.”

They went inside his office then, leaving Clint and Spud to work on the coffee. Inside the office, he handed Clayton a stack of folders that contained each applicant’s information. “There’s already half a dozen of these wagons across the river right now, and I expect more of them will start showing up every day, if it’s like it usually is.” He walked over to a closet and pulled out a board. “I got a sign made up for you.” He held it up for Clayton to see. It read simply, Scofield. “When you move your wagon across the river and find the place where you want to circle up your wagons, fix this on your wagon so you can see it. Every family knows their wagon master’s name is Scofield.”

“That’s a good idea,” Clayton said. “That woulda come in handy last year when we had three different trains makin’ up on that prairie across the river.”

“You can get to know that half dozen right away and you’ll practically get to know the ones who aren’t here yet just by reading these folders. That’s just one of the benefits you get by working with me. I know that you always handled all the arrangements for the train yourself before this year. But you had to spend half the year back here to do it. Am I right?”

“Ain’t no doubt, it’s a lot easier on me not havin’ to line up all the people to ride with me.”

“Now, when you leave here, you’ve got your expense advance. You can go right to J. C. Evans and Sons and pick up your wagon that’s already paid for. But maybe you’d better go to the stable and pick out the team you want to pull it first.” He chuckled in appreciation of his humor. “So whaddaya think, Clayton? This arrangement made it a helluva lot easier on you, right?”

“I reckon it did make it easier, but I’m takin’ home less than I did last year when it was just me linin’ up all the customers,” Clayton said. “We’ll see how we end up money-wise when the last wagon shows up and we settle.”

“It’ll be worth it, Clayton,” Moreland insisted. “This arrangement this year added years to your life.”

“Maybe so,” Clayton allowed. “I’ll go along now and pick up my wagon. You know where I’ll be if you need me for anything.” He didn’t tell Moreland that this was his last trip on the Oregon Trail. He didn’t think it a good idea until he got the rest of the money he had coming under their deal. He hadn’t admitted it to Clint or Garland, but he must have been drunk when he agreed to let Moreland handle all the selling of the wagon train. Moreland’s percentage off the top was going to leave him with a lot less money because he was still giving Clint and Spud the same as he did last year when he handled the whole thing. Never too old to learn a new lesson, he thought and left the office.

They went from Moreland’s to the stable, where they got the horses they rode in on and then selected a team for the wagon from the corral. Once that was done, they walked all the horses over to J. C. Evans & Sons to claim Clayton’s wagon. In a short time, Spud was driving the new wagon back up the street to Appleby’s General Store to buy his supplies for the trip. They parked the wagon in a vacant lot behind Mama’s Kitchen and tied the other horses to the wagon. Then they went inside for one last meal at Mama’s before taking the ferry across the Missouri River to Kansas.

Once they picked a spot on the prairie with room for twenty-eight wagons to circle up, Scofield fixed his sign on the side of the wagon. On a good-sized board, it was easy to read the bold letters from way across the prairie. And before long one of the wagons already there hitched their horses up and drove over. A man and a woman sat in the driver’s seat and three children walked along beside them. They pulled up beside Scofield’s wagon. “How do?” the man called out. “I see by your sign there that you must be Clayton Scofield, the fellow who’s gonna lead us to the Willamette Valley.”

“I’ve gotta plead guilty, I reckon,” Scofield responded. “Who have I got the pleasure of meetin’?”

“We’re Tracy and Ada Bishop from Springfield.” He climbed down from the wagon, then helped his wife down. Scofield shook hands with both of them and welcomed them to the train. “This is Tim, Lucy, and Bo,” Tracy said.

“I’m proud to meet you all,” Scofield said, “and welcome to the Oregon Express. Those two fellows you see down there by the water with the horses will be leading the way with me. The young fellow is Clint Buchanan. He’s the guide and he ain’t never led me wrong in the three years he’s worked with me. The other fellow is Spud Williams. He drives my wagon and cooks for me and Clint. You’ll get to know both of ’em pretty well before we get very far up the road.”

“I’m a little worried about having enough supplies,” Tracy said. “We got here so early we’re eating up a lot of food just sitting here waiting for everybody else to show up. How long will it take us to reach Fort Laramie? I understand that’s the place to restock on anything you’re short of.”

“Well, I can’t predict what weather and whatnot we might run into between here and there,” Scofield answered. “So I always figure close to two months. Then if we get good weather and no problems, we’ll make it in a month and a half. But if you’re really runnin’ low, you can buy what you need at Fort Kearny. That’s about half the distance to Fort Laramie, and we’ll be staying overnight there. The government sets the prices on food stocks at Fort Kearny, so settlers like you don’t get overcharged.”

“I declare, that makes me feel a lot better,” Tracy said. “Did you hear that, Ada?”

“I did,” she replied. “I know we’d have run short of flour and coffee before we got to Fort Laramie.”

“So, are you gonna have the wagons form a circle right here?” Tracy asked.

“That’s right,” Scofield replied. “We’ll do that at the end of every day’s travel. Spud will park this wagon facin’ the direction we’ll start out the next mornin’. And I’ll point the wagon tongue in the direction of the north star, so you can always know which way’s north the next mornin’. We’ll change the order of travel in the train, so that nobody gets a face full of dust every day. If you want to, you can go ahead and park your wagon behind mine. I see another wagon headin’ this way. He can park behind you.” Tracy said he would do that and climbed back up in his wagon. While he was moving it into position behind him, Scofield was thinking that sign Moreland painted for him was a good idea, but maybe not worth the money it cost him. Maybe one of us, me or Clint, would have thought of it, he thought, although they hadn’t in the years prior to this.

He went through the same welcoming with Will and Angel Tucker then. They looked to be a younger couple than the Bishops. They had two children, but they were younger, a boy, Billy, who was three, and the youngest a baby girl, still on her mother’s breast. The Tuckers not only met the wagon master but they got acquainted with the Bishops as well. Scofield went through the same routine every day after that as more of the contracted families showed up. Everybody got acquainted and were soon socializing every evening after supper, waiting for that final starting day. It wasn’t long before the musicians showed up, Henry Abbott with his fiddle, Lucien Aiken with a guitar. It was a disappointment for Spud, but he was contented again on the final day before the starting day when Tiny Futch showed up with a banjo. Spud was partial to the banjo, said it lifted his spirits.

With only one day left before the deadline, the last wagon rolled in. Like Scofield’s wagon, it was brand-new and fitted out for the trail by J. C. Evans & Sons. It was driven by a brute of a man named Roy Leach. But it was owned by Bass Thornton, a man who looked to be in his mid-forties. He was accompanied by his wife, Violet, who appeared to be half his age and there were no children. Far in appearance from the typical settler, Bass Thornton was not on his way to Oregon to build a farm. That much was easy to assume, and when Scofield shook his hand, the softness of it confirmed his assumption. And wife Violet’s dress seemed more suited to a dancehall or saloon. “But this ain’t the Mormon wagon train,” Scofield told Clint and Spud. “It ain’t up to me to say we don’t need saloon. . .