Cavannaugh: West From Appomattox

[Forty Rod]

   I laughed at that before asking, “What happened to Cy’s equipment?”
   Harry pointed to the rear of the shop.  “We got a lot of it here.  That’s his riflin’ bench,
 and we have his mandrels and the little forge, too.   Joe has a couple of boxes of stuff that we was holdin’ for you.  Cyrus said you’d be comin’ for it.”
   I scratched my head and wondered, “How do you reckon he figured that?”
   “Said he knew you well enough to know you’d be comin’ west after the shootin’ stopped.  Said you’d be here sooner or later, or your ghost would.”
   When Joe came back we talked about much the same things as Harry and I had discussed.  Finally the talk turned to the boxes that Cyrus had left for me.  When Joe pulled out the boxes I was surprised to find a beautifully matched pair of .56 caliber mountain rifles and a matching pair of single shot pistols in the same caliber, along with a fine double barreled English double barreled game gun in twelve gauge.  There were a pair of copper flasks, one for the rifles and pistol and one for the shotgun, a mould for throwing five round ball at a time, and a capping tool hand made to Uncle Cyrus’s own design. 
There were other items, too.  Repair parts, tools, a small anvil, a little hand-cranked blower for a forge, and a host of other things useful to us, and page after page of designs drawn to full size, and more pages of instructions and formulas.

Finally Joe suggested we get something to eat.  We walked two blocks to a fine restaurant on the edge of the industrial district and through the doors.  As we stepped through into the dining room a man rose and took a young lady by the arm.  They headed toward us and were nearly upon us when I recognized the man.
“Uncle Cyrus?”
Frankie, my boy!  How are you?”  as we shook hands and talked the woman stood aside and watched.  Finally I glanced over at her and was surprised to see a smiling face, a face that I remembered much younger.
“Clarissa, is that you?”
“Frank Cavannaugh, don’t you dare tell me how much I’ve grown or make any comment about braids.”  Her eyes were laughing at me as I took her hands .  “You look well, considering.”
“I am well”, I confessed, “and very happy to see you…I was going to say ‘all grown up’, but I’ve been warned.”
Cyrus suggested we get a table and stop blocking the way.  Clarissa turned and took Cyrus’s arm and linked it through her own.  “Come along, then.  Uncle Cyrus, there’s a chair on your left.  Be careful of it.”
With a start I looked again at the old man.  He seemed normal and I hadden’t  noticed that he stared straight ahead.
“Uncle Cyrus?”
“As bat, son.  Been blind  ‘most three years, now.  Doctors couldn’t stop it.  Clarissa helps out when she can, and I manage pretty well when I’m someplace familiar.”
“When she can?”
“Well, yes, when she can,” he grinned.  “Has her own family to look after now, husband and a daughter of her own, but she’s a good girl and helps her old father out from time to time.  We have lunch here every Monday and Friday.”

In a quiet corner we sat and talked until the young girl brought our meals.  “You met my husband if you were at Uncle Joe’s.  I’m Married to Harry Schreiber and my little girl’s name is Abigail. She’s almost three years old.”
“But you’re just a kid.”
“I am nearly twenty-one years old, Frank.  I’m NOT a kid any more.  Should I tell my husband that you have insulted me?” 
I looked her over and had to agree that she wasn’t a kid.  “Don’t tell Harry.  If he can handle you, he’s too much for me.”

Following the meal I found myself invited to supper that evening.  Assured that Uncle Cy would be there, too, I accepted and as I departed I saw Pop Schramm across the street and crossed over.
“I seen them folks and didn’t want to interfere.  Was that old Cy Owens?  And who was the young lady with him?  She’s a looker, that one.”

I explained and we walked along talking about the mules and supplies I’d arranged for.  It was with great surprise that Pop asked me if I intended to stay in “Sant Looie.”
“Why, no Pop.  Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“Wall, son, you get a sorta wistful look when you talk about your family.  Had a friend once called it a thousand yard stare in a twenty foot barn, an’ I figgered you might be pinin’ for a home among ‘em.”
“Pop, there just isn’t anything here for me.  I need more room around me than a big city allows.  No, I’ll go along west with you an’ the boys.  Besides, you’d die if you had to drink your own coffee.  I’ve tasted that mud you make.  Mine’s a heap better, an’ it ain’t much betterr’n horrible.”
“What’s wrong with my coffee?  Why I’ve a mind to…”
“Your so-called coffee would melt a mule shoe and the fumes would cut the bluin’ off a gun barrel.  Now mine will float a mule shoe and Uncle Cyrus used the fumes to brown his barrels, but it’s better’n yours.  Don’t get yourself all bound up over it, though.  I simply adore your biscuits.”

“ADORE?  ADORE!  I’ll learn you about usin’ sweety words for my cookin’.  Cook your own biscuits from now on.  ADORE!  DAMN!  Next thing you’ll be wantin’ me to make pink tea an’ those little cakes with sugar icin’ on ‘em, drink with my little finger stikin’ out.  WAUGH!! Adore, my tired ol’ butt.”



 
   

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 6.
Pop had arranged to buy eight more saddle horses and another small wagon, and when I’d paid for them and all of our other purchases the poke was left might light.  He suggested we pack the supplies on the saddle horses and he could take them and ride out to meet the rest of our party.  I’d stay on two more days and rendezvous with them west of town on the trail.
As it was, we stayed on until noon on the third day before he left.  There were two main reasons.  The first was Ernest “Bear Paw” Winters, a mountain man that Schramm had trailed with many years ago.  The two oldsters had started talking and before I knew it we had another man to join us on the trail.
Winters was a frail-looking man of surprising strength, resilience, and agility.  His blonde hair was liberally filled with silver, his blue eyes were so pale as to appear nearly white, and he stood stooped beneath the weight of many hard years.  In spite of this he moved like a cat on the stalk and worked like one of those Missouri mules.
The second reason for our delay was cattle.  I had met Harlon Berntson my first afternoon in town, but he had not mentioned cattle at the time.  He was a man with a vision gone dim.  He had intended to take a herd of four hundred to Oregon, but about half had been run off by the hands he had hired, his wife caught cholera and was buried beside the trail, and his spirit was broken.
“Cavannaugh, I don’t know you from Adam’s off ox, but Jake Silvers seems to cotton to you, and Owens and Vogel both vouch for you and I know them and trust their judgment.  If you’re interested I’d sure like to work a deal for the lot.  Last count I had a hundred seventy one left.”
“Mister Berntson, I’m with a party of men with practically no cash money left. We’re headed west with what we can carry on our saddles and two small wagons.  As much as I’d like to have the herd I just can’t see how…”
“I know.  I know.  Cyrus told me about your situation.  Look, I figure I stand to lose the lot anyhow if I can’t get someone to buy ‘em.  I propose you take ‘em west with you, sell ‘em when you can, an’ pay me half of what you make an the deal.”
And just like that we were in the cattle business.  A discussion worked out the details and the contract was a handshake. Berntson gave me a bill of sale with Harry Screiber and Jake Silvers signing as witnesses.  I left Berntson with another handshake and my sincere thanks, carrying the address of his bank in my pocket.
I found Pop and Winters and we hatched a plan to move the animals.  Berntson had hire two men to watch the little herd, so we rehired them to move the cows to where our group would take over.  In lieu of cash, I gave the men to cows each, along with a bill of sale, as their wages for tow day’s work.

When we had taken care of that task, the other four set out with the cows and I went to say my farewells to the “family” I might never see again.

Picking a spot that was well off the main route but easy to find, we sent word up and down the trail telling our friends where to meet us.  Three days afterward they arrived and had recruited the Negros as we had planned. We all agreed that the cattle were what we needed and held a conference to plan the handing of our growing enterprise.

Our party now consisted of eight of our original nine men, Bear Paw Winters, five black men, six women and five children.  We had almost two hundred head of cattle, two dozen horses, eight mules, three wagons, and two small carts.
Twelve of us could ride and work the livestock in shifts, as well as drive the vehicles, pack and unpack, and all the other things that would be done.  The two mountain men were our scouts, both having been over the ground several times before.  Old Joe Goss was too old to sit a saddle and Jeremiah, the Uncle, was recovering from his wound.  The women took over the cooking without discussion, and also set up a routine to handle laundry, mending, and tending duties.
From the very beginning it went off without a hitch.  After the first day on the trail, the cattle “elected” a rangy longhorn cow as their “tail boss’.  When we moved she would walk to the front and away she would go.  The rest fell in behind like proper cow-soldiers and marched along until she stopped.  Even the horses and any mules not under hitch followed her lead.
A similar situation developed with the human part of the group.  Joe Goss’s wife, Eleanor, became the acting “Mother” of the group.  I was trail boss, but she ruled the camp, passing out chores to be done, using her long-handled wooden spoon to stir food, ladle out medicine, or dispense a measure of discipline as needed.
Even the two mountain men fell into the habit of doing what she directed them to do with a grudging “Yes, Miss Eleanor, Ma’am”.  Pop dug in his heels at washing dishes only once.  Later that evening as he sat staring at the meager spoonful of food that she had allotted him for supper, he grunted and threw in his hand, saying only. “Who’s washin’ dishes with me tonight?” 
All if the men, save Ira Goss, young Jeremiah’s father, proved to be more than adequate cowboys.  Ira never got the hang of thinking like a cow, but he made up for it by being eager and hard working.  I finally set him to filling water barrels, gathering wood, and maintaining the wagons and carts.
In camp the Negros kept to themselves except when necessary, and we seldom saw Schramm and Winter.  We were all together at the end of ule when we assed Saint Joseph, Missouri.
Jim Deal rode into town with Kyle Roundy an Cory Skabelund to get some small supplies that the women insisted we had to have.  When they returned some five hours later, Deal and Roundy came to me while Skabelund put the supplies away.

“Vance Kelso was in town, trailin’ with a rough bunch in one of the saloons. It’s said he killed a man in Jefferson City, an’ wounded another badly.  Some of the men he’s with rode with Bill Quantrill’s bunch.  Harmon, Alexander, a couple of brother named James, and Lane Harcourt.  A few others I didn’t recognize.”  I sat back and squinted at Jim.
“Did Kelso see you?”
“Cap’n, I don’t honestly know.  It don’t much matter, though.  He knows where we’re headed.”
I stood up and stretched.
“Yeah, he does.  Well, maybe he’ll decide to sit in the lap of luxury and say put. Maybe he’ll forget about us.  We don’t need him or his kind.”
Jim looked at me and shook his shaggy head,
“Don’t you count on him forgettin’ us, Frank.  You shamed him an’ run him off.  He won’t forget.”
By sunup the next day we were an hour on the trail to Fort Kearny.  We figured the distance at two hundred miles and hoped to make it in no more than twenty days.  The herd was moving steadily, and when we left Saint Joseph, Jeremiah Goss, the uncle was sitting a saddle like he’d been born to it.  He simply saddled up and dropped back to ride drag without asking or being told.  I looked over at Jim and he was grinning back at me.  With a wink and a nod he dropped back to ride drag, too.

Early one morning I was with the wagons when Tom Wheeler rode up.
“Cap’n, there’s buffalo up ahead.  Do we push on through?”
We rode ahead to take a look and from a low hill and saw thousands of the big shaggy beasts moving slowly across the land.
“Tom, you go back an’ hold everythin’ where it is until they pass. I’m goin’ after meat.”
I pulled the Henry from the scabbard and rode cautiously forward to the head of the herd.  After a few minutes I found a fat cow away from the others and put a bullet into her lungs.  She jerked and walked slowly away from me as I worked the lever.  She walked two hundred yards or more and stopped.  I had followed on foot with my horse trailing me like a dog.
As I looked, the cow’s head shook and she stared vacantly around.  She coughed and blood flew from her nostrils and muzzle as her head dropped lower.  She shook her head again and started forward, staggered, and stopped once more.  After another three or four minutes she started on again, stumbled and fell to her knees.  More long minutes and she finally rolled over and I saw that she was no longer breathing.
I determined to have Hans Bruner and his Whitworth rifle, or one of the mountain men with their heavy Rocky Mountain rifles, do the heavy hunting from then on.  The Henry wasn’t powerful enough for buffalo and bear

   

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 7.
Once the animal was skinned under the watchful and strangely knowledgeable eye of Eleanor Goss, and butchered, the best of the meat was loaded on the bigger wagons and the rest was carefully cached and marked.  It wouldn’t last long, but someone in need may find it and be the better for it.  At least we tried.
After we returned to the camp the ladies drug the heavy hide off to a grassy knoll and began to scrape it down in preparation to curing it.  The two old hibernants…our salty mountain men…cut the meat into manageable sizes and began the long process of smoking some, jerking some, and salting some.  After dark the work continued in a slightly lessened frenzy, and by morning we were laying out pans of pemmican to be dried in the sun.
Thus we spend two full days and a part of a third before loading up and continuing on our westward way.
We’d gone only a short way when I came upon tracks of several horses moving north-west from us.  I moved off to see where they’d gone.  The horses had been shod, but that alone didn’t rule out Indians.  The horses might be stolen or might have been taken as battle prizes.
As it was still early, I glanced back at the herd and decided to see where the tracks led me.  My intention was to simply assure myself that the riders of those horses posed no threat to any of us, nor to the herd.  Most of the time the tracks were indistinct and hard to follow, but occasionally they were in a place and condition that made them as plain to read ad the pages of a book.
After about six miles I started to turn back, having seen no reason to continue.  Suddenly a half dozen riders charged at me from a stand of trees on my left, firing their guns as they came.  My own rifle was carried across my saddle and it was a matter of only a second before I had raised it and returned the fire.  I saw a man in a dirty red shirt jerk violently and topple from his horse, corrected my aim and shot a second man, causing him to drop his gun and grab at the saddle with both hands.  At that I turned my horse and made a run for a low hill to he right and was immediately cut off by four more rides in that direction.  I spurred the horse and ran for my life toward a creek at the bottom of another hill a quarter mile away.  If I could gain the top of that hill, and the trees there, I could possibly stand the raiders off.
I fired twice and missed then saw a horse go down with my next shot.  I swung back right and shot the Henry one-handed.  Whether I hit anything or not I couldn’t say, for a that moment a bullet hit the cantle of my saddle and glanced upward, striking me in the back.  I flinched, jerking the reins and turning the horse back toward the creek, and the rifle fell from my hand.  I struggled to pull a pistol and turned to fire twice.  Again I saw a horse falter and go to its knees, pitching the rider over its head into the grass.
A heavy wrenching blow grabbed at my left arm and I dropped the Colt, clutching at the pommel to keep from falling.  Too late, I fell backward with my foot catching in the stirrup for only one leap before the horse screamed and reared, falling back onto me.  I felt pain and fear, saw the blood pouring from the horse’s neck and spewing from his nostrils, and felt him take another bullet.  He kicked once and lay still, pinning my legs beneath him.
I struggled to pull myself free of his weight and to draw my right hand Colt.  As I tried to roll clear a horse jumped over mine.  The rider leaned out and chopped down with his Dragoon pistol.  Orange flame and white smoke, and something seemed to explode in my head.  My world went dark and still, and far away I heard voices.
“Throw me his sixgun.  Is he dead?”
“Hell, man, look at him.  Half his head’s blown away, he’s hit a couple more times in the body, an’ his arm’s almost tore off.  If he ain’t dead, he sure will be soon enough.”
“Get his bags an’ gear, then.  We’ll look around an’ see what can we find back yonder.”
Another voice asked, “Who is he?”
“Who cares?  He was follerin’ us, now he won’t.  I don’t reckon he’ll follow nobody no more.”
My slight grip on consciousness loosened and I was dead.

Meanwhile, the little wagon train and the cows had moved on without anyone missing Frank Cavannaugh.  They encountered a smaller herd of very restless buffalo right at nightfall as they were bedding down, and the cattle, too, became nervous and “frighty”, as Winters put it.  No one really missed Cavannaugh until things had settled considerably.
“We’ll send a couple of men back in the morning.  No point in looking in the dark.”  Jim walked away to get some sleep.
Near morning the rains came with a vengeance and a tornado roared across the grassland not far away, frightening the tired cattle into a short stampede.  It was noon before Bear Paw Winters, the best tracker, set out to find the Captain.
Further north, Frank Cavannaugh had awaked to a cold drizzle and a lot of pain.

Over the course of the following days, the part sent out searchers north and west, but in every case they returned without finding a trace of the missing man.  Not enough time could be spent away from the herd to do a proper search, even when three of the women calmly saddled up and rode out to help, but young Billy Calhoun reused to give up.  Surrender the Captain to his fate without a fight?  Not he.  Frank Cavannaugh was not only his friend and the leader of the band, but to Billy Calhoun, Cavannaugh was “family”…just about the only family the young cavalryman had ever known…and it wasn’t in him to back away from that responsibility.
As the little herd move on, Billy spent less and less time there and rode in ever-widening arcs outward from the wagons.
In Cavannaugh’s absence, Jim Deal naturally drifted into the leadership position and was never questioned about it.  When anyone wanted to know what to do next, Jim would think about it for a moment and reply, “Frank would want you to…” and it was accepted as Frank’s will. No one put to voice what was felt by everyone except Billy Calhoun: Frank Cavannaugh was dead, and they may never learn his fate.  Whether by bullet, arrow, or accident none could tell, but it must be true, for he had not returned and no trace had been uncovered.
An old Indian came into the camp alone on the evening of the fifth day after Frank’s disappearance.  The two mountain men were away out in front of the herd and not available to question the man.
“Big fight.  Many mans.”
Misunderstanding, Hans Bruner said, “Yes. Many men fight.  Blue soldiers, gray soldiers fight.”
The old man looked disgusted at the german.
“NO! Now fight.  This many days.”  He held out a hand, palm forward and fingers spread.
Suddenly Billy jumped up.  “Where?  Where this fight?”  His voice trembled as everyone watched.
“There.”  He pointed back from where they had come.  “I take.  You give one whiskey.  I take.”
“Whiskey whenI find Cavvannaugh.”
The old man shook his head slowly. “No.  Whiskey now. Drink later.  Who is Ca-Va-Nah?”
“He is my friend, my brother.  Oh, hell, where’s Pop?  He speaks this lingo.  Look, you take me now.  You get whiskey when you show me where fight was.”
The Indian was firm.  “Whiskey now.  White-eyes speak poison words.  No true.  Whiskey now.”
At an impasse, he stood slowly, looked at Calhoun with eyes as flat and void of emotion as a snake’s’, and walked to his pony.  Billy frantically saddled his own horse and just as he was to ride out, Bruner two filled canteens of water.
“Billy, what are you thinkin’?  That old Indian didn’t give you enough information to find a steamboat out there, much less a man.”
The kid looked down at big Jim Deal for a long moment.
“Jim, Cap’n Frank saved my life maybe seven, eight times.  He was always square with me, a’ trusted me when nobody else would’ve.  He’s as close to family as I ever had, an’ by God, I’m goin’ back.  Don’t try to stop me.  I’ll find him, dead or alive.  Then I’ll be back.”
The huge former Sergeant stood looking as the kid reined his horse around and started to ride into the night.
“Good luck, Son.  You come back when you’re done.”

   

[Advertising]

[Forty Rod]

Shy of noon the next day Billy found Cavannaugh’s horse, four miles from where they’d been looking.  He removed the saddle and was carrying it to cache in the trees when he found a body.  His heart skipped, but when he took a closer look he found the man was a stranger.  The man had been shot once in the neck and had been dragged here after being stripped of anything of value.  Looking carefully around, the young cavalryman found the remains of a fire and the odds and ends left behind by a careless camper, or campers.  As his toe pushed the scrap around Billy suddenly bent and pulled a small bit of cloth from the debris, a scrap that matched exactly the shirt he had last seen Frank wearing.
After putting the saddle and a few…a vet few…other items in a safe place for later recovery, Billy sat chewing a chunk of buffalo on a slab of bread and tried to get inside Frank Cavannaugh’s mind.  What would the Captain be most likely to do? Where would he go?
West!  Billy was certain beyond doubt that frank would try to continue on west.  That tiny shred of cloth bothered him.  Had it been ripped from Frank’s shirt?  If so, by accident or for some specific reason?  Had it perhaps been from the dead man’s clothing instead?

He stood, stretched, and stood scowling, his eyes scanning to the west, looking for any sign of the passing man.  Back in the rear corners of his mind he was sure that frank had been injured, and he suspected that he had killed the man in the woods.  Why hadn’t the attackers, if there were any attackers, stripped Cavannaugh?  Hmmm.  Maybe they had and he simply hadn’t found the body.

Saddling up, he started a slow, methodical search of the area, beginning at the Captain’s horse.  He circled further and further out and in so doing, found another dead horse with a second body nearby.  Both had been stripped and abandoned.  A half hour later he found a Colt’s Army pistol…one of Cavannaugh’s guns.

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 8.
Casting back and forth in half-mile arcs, Billy made his way west, looking, praying for sign of the man who has saved him on more than one occasion.  He missed seeing another body, a man trapped beneath a horse.  He had died while trapped by the horse and a broken back when the animal fell with him after after being shot.
It was in this wide, sweeping way that he discovered signs on someone passing, moving in a generally westerly direction.  Someone, if Billy read it right, who was injured or ill, someone moving erratically, resting often, and without water or fire.  Grass mashed down and bent over, tracks in the dust, stones turned out of their beds, all were information that Billy gathered.  His pace quickened and he lifted the horse to a gallop, slowing from time to time to make sure he was still on the right path.  He came upon the remains of a crude camp with a clumsily made bark pot, and evidence that the man had crawled, not walked away from this spot.

Mid afternoon found him atop a low rise, the highest feature around, looking toward the west where the land sloped gently away.  There, far off near the horizon, he thought he saw movement.  Miles off to the southwest he saw a smear of dust against the sky and judged that to be the herd that he had left to search for the missing man.

Having kept the black horse moving steadily in spite of almost three days of hard riding, Billy Calhoun now spurred the tired beast forward to intercept the moving figure ahead.  How far from here to the herd?  Six or seven miles, maybe much further, was his best guess.

As he got closer he realized that he was, in fact, looking at a man, and as he watched, saw the figure fall, lay for a moment, and then struggle back to his feet and continue on.  The pace was slow and halting, but the man seemed determined to continue on come what may. He turned the black and rode a wide circle, scanning for any sign of life, and in so doing found the tracks of a dozen unshod horses paralleling the path of the man who fell again even as Billy found the tracks.  Fearing an attack by Indians while exposed out on this flat grass plain, Billy ran the tired horse toward Cavannaugh, leaping from the saddle as he got close.  He approached Frank and finally had to grab him by the shoulders to stop the injured soldier.  Looking into glazed eye and a thinned and sun-burned face, Billy held on as Cavannaugh struggled to free himself and continue on his journey.  He grimaced as Frank mouthed almost soundless words, setting a cadence for himself to follow: “In Dixieland…I’ll take my stand, to live…and…and die in Dixie…”

Sobbing in frustration, Billy finally stepped in front of Captain Cavannaugh, saluted smartly, and reported.
 “Cap’n Cavannaugh, suh. Colonel Duschesne’s complements, suh, an’ he wants you to say here until he comes or sends for you.  I’m to stay an’ set up a camp.  Suh?  Do you unnerstand, suh?”
“Billy?  Corporal?  I…I understand….I’ll sit here a…bit while you make us a…a camp.  I’ll wait for the colonel.”
He sat down so suddenly that Billy barely had time to slip an arm around him and lower him gently to the grass.
“Corporal…have you any…water?  I seem to have misplaced…my canteen.”


   

[Forty Rod]

After making a suitable, though meager camp, Billy got Cavannaugh on his horse and led the beast back to the place where he had laid out a pallet for the injured man.   Well back in the trees where it was protected from wind, Billy hat pulled saplings together to form a roof overhead.  He had tied his ground cloth, a rubberized Yankee blanket, in such a way that all but the hardest rain would be diverted away from the bed of boughs and leaves covered by two blankets.

He got Cavannaugh off the horse and gently situated him on the pallet, gave him more water to drink, and began to check the wounds.  What he found sickened him and frightened him more than he wanted to admit.  He cleaned the wounds as best he could, keeping the lessons learned in battle and from Jim Deal in mind.  When he was done, he retrieved the guns that Cavannaugh had dragger along, cleaned and reloaded them, and put them close by the wounded soldier’s side.
Finally, he returned with his worn and threadbare greatcoat and covered Frank with it.  He once again checked his “patient” and spoke clearly and slowly.
“Cap’n, I have to go get the sarge an’ the others.  You need more help than I know how to give, so I have to leave you alone for a little bit.  I’ll be back, though.  Don’t you worry none about that, Cap’n. I will be back.  You have water an’ your guns are by your hand, all loaded an’ ready.”
He stood looking down and saw the eyes open and slide around.  Frank finally focused on Billy’s face and his lip twitched in a try at a smile.
“Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Cap’n.  I’m goin’ now.”
As the horse and rider headed off to the south at a ground-eating pace, a jay cocked her head to one side and glared a challenge at the intruder in her little glade.  She scolded at him for only a second, then went on her way.  A bee droned by with a second one flying in and out of the small patches of sunlight.
Lying quietly on the crude bed, finally safe and resting, Frank Cavannaugh roused slightly to a small, quiet voice in his head: “Billy found me.  I’m going to be alright.  I’m not dead yet.”


   

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 9
Frank’s wounds healed rapidly, with the help of good ‘doctoring’, good food, fair weather, and a naturally strong will and body.  His arm was very stiff and sore when they stopped near Fort Kearney.  Deal and Winters rode in to gather information and pass the word about the shooting of Cavannaugh.  No one there recognized any of the raiders from the description that rank had been able to provide.  Indians were being troublesome all along the trail, but weren’t expected to cause much grief to a party as large as theirs.
On the twelfth of August they pushed on west.  It was getting late in the year and, although it was now very hot and dry, it was feared the higher passes would be closed, choked high with snow before they could get there.  Already the nights were cooler, even if the days were still miserably hot.
Half way to Julesburg they lost Kyle Roundy.  He was working alone on the right flank of the herd and followed a cow up a shallow draw and out of sight of the others.  He was gone only a couple of minutes when shots were heard and five men broke of to go racing up the draw as the rest of the group circled around and “forted up”.  Henry Wheeler found Roundy with four arrows and two bullets in him.  As the others gathered around him he muttered, “they was stealin’ a cow.  I stopped ‘em.”
Kyle Roundy was gone, but from the amount of blood found in three places nearby, he didn’t take that final journey alone.  The Indians had carried away their dead and wounded, so it wasn’t know how many Kyle had shot, but “It were more’n a couple” seemed to be the consensus.
They buried him on a hill where the trail below could be seem going off to the west.  The ghost of the dead soldier could see his goal from there, and watch over the many yet to come along that trail.  They left a carved marker with the words “Kyle Roundy CSA killed near this spot by Indians August 22, 1865.  He was a good soldier and a good friend.”  They covered the grave with boulders and anchored the marker well before gathering around to hear Joe Goss read final words.  His voice was strong and clear as he recited, “For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.  I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, and I have kept the faith.”
As we rode away from the last place we would ever see our friend I realized that I knew very little about the men and women I rode with.  Roundy had been a quiet man, friendly, yet strangely alone even in a crowd.  He neither smoked nor drank, and I didn’t recall him ever using a word more profane than “shucks”.  He did his work without complaint and with little comment, and had a way with animals.  Giving the impression that he was a man a peace, he was nevertheless always in the thickest of gun smoke when trouble came.  He had died fighting for a single cow.  It wasn’t the quantity or quality of what was being taken, it was very simply that it had belonged to us and no one was going to take it away.
I knew that he had come from Macon, Georgia and that he had no family. He never mentioned any friends.
A lonely grave on a lonely, windswept hillside where his spirit could watch the trail, and a sincere marker, that and our memories were all that remained of Kyle Roundy.  But then, what more can any man look forward to. It was enough.


   

[Forty Rod]

We skirted Julesburg and set up a mile outside of the town.  By this time I was able to spend half a day in the saddle.  My arm was still stiff and sore and greatly limited in both motion and strength, but my scalp and back were both coming along a lot better.  I still tired easily.
I sent three riders into town for a few supplies that we needed and to gather whatever news and information was to be had.  As they rode away I noticed that our ready cash was mighty low.  We’d have to be careful.  Maybe we could sell a couple of cows.
After two days we moved out once again following the course of the South Platte River generally west toward Denver, which had been known as Saint Charles until a few years before the war.  The trail led us almost one hundred fifty miles and nearly all of it was up hill.  The trail was wide and well used and several times we met Mormon immigrants, all headed for The Great Salt Lake City, or as many of them called it, ‘Zion’.  The weather became colder day-by-day, and was very noticeable once the sun set.  One morning we discovered a thin skim of ice in the barrels.  Our two mountain men and Joe Goss came to Jim and me that morning after breakfast.
“Frank, we’re overdue for snow an’ we’ll be in it for certain once we get in them mountains proper.  Denver Town is said to be over a mile high an’ it gets some wicked cold up there for a big part of the year.  You think mebbe we should plan on winterin’ over an’ go on when the thaw starts?”
I looked first at Winters an’ then at Pop Schramm.  Neither one ever let me read any expression on their faces, and now was no different.
“You two are my experts on this country.  Talk to me.  Let me know what you think.”
“Wa’al,” Winters drawled, “they had a real bad winter here last year.  I was told, ‘cause I weren’t here my self, but they said it was a real bad ‘un.  Due to be milder this year, I reckon, but I ben wrong more’n once before.  Now I figger we could be mostly awright, but we got some cows ain’t gonna get much farther along, an’ me an’ Schramm are worried about the wimmen and young Jerry with Rev’rend Goss’s bunch.  It could get purty rough on them.”
“Can we get through?”
Pop grinned back at me.  “Well, I should think so.  The Mormon Trail (That’s what it bein’ called now.) is getting’ pretty well worn an’ shouldn’t give us no problems.  We won’t starvw with all them cows and if we stick to the trail we oughta be fine.”
“How about going south?”
“Farther an’ higher, mighty damn rough down that way,” Pop said.  I’d say not.  Best to stick with the traveled trail.”  He coughed an’ glanced under his hat brim at Joe, and winked.  “’Nuther thing you need to know.  Seems Brigham is havin’ a bit of trouble with Federal troops an’ he was tellin’ his folks not to do business with “the Gentiles”.  We also hear the Injuns are causin’ a stir ever’ now an’ again.  Black Hawk, Arropeen, an’ Sanpitch been raidin’ to the south, stealin’ horses an’ cows, an’ got a couple or three communities all wrought up about it.”
We discussed it at length and Joe Goss went back to his people while Deal and I took it to our men.  Joe came back in short order and said, “We go wherever you go, and stop when you stop.  We are better with you than on our own amongst strangers.”  That settled it.  I didn’t believe Joe even got an argument from the others.  He was the head of ‘the family’ an none would speak against him without an overwhelming reason. 
The next morning we were twenty-two miles closer to Denver headed up the Cherokee Trail to Fort Bridger, with the plan of going on through to Salt Lake with a secondary plan to spend the winter in the Denver area or someplace further along.  Our average rate of travel had been twenty miles a day.  This would put us in the Mormon capital in about six weeks, barring any problems.

          At Bridger we went into the post in turns.  Most wanted warmed clothing and we were wanting for coffee, salt, and some other small stores. Henry Wheeler, Joe Goss, Bear Paw Winters and I rode in together with Henry leading a mule to carry for us.  The two Negros went to the store and Winters left me to talk to some old friends about trail conditions and old times.  I turned to follow Henry into the store when a man rushed out the door and very nearly knocked me off my feet.  I turned to apologize and caught sight of a florid face and a great unruly shock of red hair, and a hand dropping back for a holstered gun under the edge of his heavy wool coat.  Only four feet separated us, and at that instant I recognized the man, stepped forward and shouldered him in the chest, then clubbed a hard left to the jaw.  This was the man who had jumped his horse over mine and shot me those many weeks ago.
          The blow turned him half around, sending him staggering off the low porch.  He turned with a Remington .44 in his hand, raising it to point at me. I palmed my pistol and, feeling it buck in my hand, thumbed the hammer and shot him again.  Both shots had hit below the heart, not an inch apart.  The red-head choked and his eyes got wide for a brief moment before his knees folded and he dropped forward onto his face, his pistol firing into the dirt.

          In an instant I was surrounded by Winters and five of his friends forming a circle with guns pointed outward.  From the corner of my eye I saw Joe and Henry step from the store, one to either side of the doorway, with Wheeler’s revolving carbine pointed back inside.   
         “It war a fair fight.  We all seen it.  This dead feller was gonna shoot this here pilgrim, but he warn’t nowhere quick enough.”
          “I agree.  No need for any more trouble.”
          I turned my head to see a well-dressed, stocky man wearing a full beard and long hair.  I noticed that he had his hair and beard plaited in front of the ears and tied with bright red yarn.  As I looked he turned to me and I a saw a slight twinkle there in the cold blue-grey eyes.  He suddenly smiled and his florid face took on a friendly, fatherly look.
          “He said his name was Hardesty,” he announced, indicating the dead man.  “He never said any other.” 
          He nodded and three men stepped forward to carry the body away.  He tuned back to me.
           “You’re headed west, sir?”
          “Yes we are”, I replied, and added, “We are looking for some land in or near Cache Valley, if the Mormons will allow us there.”
          His face crinkled into a rugged smile once again and he chuckled.  “I couldn’t say what they’ll do.  They’ve allowed me to stay for some time now.  I run a road house at Point Of the Mountain, south of the capital, and another in Cache Valley west of the town of Logan.  Perhaps you’ll look me up when it’s convenient.  My name’s Porter.” 

          As he walked away I noticed that he had a limp.  He mounted a fine black gelding with a tree branded on its hip, shifter his weight a bit and turned to grin down at me.
          “Watch out for Hickman and Rockwell.  They are truly bad men to tangle with.”
          With a wave he booted the gelding into a trot and was joined by a half dozen riders as he rode away from the trading post.
          We tried to find out more about Hardesty, the man I’d shot, but all we discovered was that he’d ridden in alone three days before, had talked to some rough-looking me (but hadn’t appeared to be with them in any way), and his horse was in a corral behind the stable.  We took a look, but the horse was not familiar to me.  Going through his belongings revealed nothing of value, just those meager things a man on the trail would be expected to have.   
          I had the nagging feeling that Hardesty, and perhaps others, had been waiting for me, or had followed me. That was not necessarily so, I thought, because anyone going to the mountains would as likely as not come this way, and would naturally have stopped at Fort Bridger for the same reasons we had.
   




   

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 10
          Our progress was slower, now as we fought the cold and altitude, but we nonetheless made the distance to the mouth of Immigrant Gap in seventeen days.  Coming out of the canyon in mid-afternoon, we saw below us a beautiful wide valley, now with large patches of snow and dry, brown foliage.  It was obvious, even from this distance, that Salt Lake City had been much more carefully laid out than most towns.  In the distance, along the foothills to the north and south, were other, smaller settlements and to the west and north lay the eye-hurting white expanse of the Great Salt Lake.  This vast inland sea had once been thought to be an arm of the Pacific Ocean, which actually lay some seven hundred miles further west.  Cultivated fields covered much of the valley floor and dozens of straight, narrow lines of irrigation canals were seen crossing the area.
          Pop and Bear Paw had ridden ahead and returned with the news that we could pasture our herd temporarily at the rate of one cow per week.  They also said that the owner of the land, one Melvin Richardson, had made an offer for half the herd.  Shortly after dark the cows were bedded down and I stored away a goodly sum of cash money and trade goods for the half of them that Richardson had bought.  That night we slept well and at ease.  Our long journey was nearly over, and relief is a great aid to restful sleep.
          The following day I set out with Jim Deal, Billy, Hans Bruner, and Pop Schramm to find the roadhouse at Point Of The Mountain.  We intended to find Porter and enlist his help and advice in getting ourselves situated and settled in until spring.  Riding up to the place we could see that it was much more than a common roadhouse like we had seen before.  Behind the place, well back from the road, lay a sprawling ranch with a big house and several well-made outbuildings.  In front of the station stood a dozen saddle horses, two fine buggies, a freight wagon, an ambulance, and a vivid vermillion stagecoach.  Four men left the saloon as we stepped down and mounted up.  They were laughing and seemed friendly enough, for all their somber dress.  They rode away toward the city, which lay ten or fifteen miles the north.
          “Must be some place”, Jim commented.  Billy grinned widely.
          “Hell, we can use some fun, too.  I wonder what they were so happy about.”
          We found a large table with eight chairs and sat down.  Deal and I sat with our backs to the wall with Billy between us, Hans and Pop taking seats on the left with their backs to the adjacent wall.  Eleven other men were in the room, four at a table identical to ours, the others at a long bar.  All were dressed simply in dark farm-style clothing.  All wore round crowned, flat brimmed black hats and tall work boots.  Though some of them may have been armed, no guns were seen.  After a minute Hans pulled an empty chair closer and leaned his long Whitworth rifle close at hand.
          A tall ma came and brought a pitcher of water and glasses and placed a slate with the day’s offerings on it in the center of the table. 
          “We have eggs and ham with gravy and biscuits, left from breakfast, too,” he said when
he returned a few minutes later to take the order.
          The food was very good and there was plenty of it.  We were finishing with coffee when Porter walked in.  He looked around, spotted us, and spoke to the man who had brought our food.  I noticed that this day only his hair was braided and his beard was carefully curled.  Without a hat it could be seen that he was balding.  He spoke to everyone in the place, calling each man by name and shaking hands as he worked his way to our table.  He stopped with his fists on his hips and smiled broadly.
          “I see you decided to accept my invitation.”  His voice was a rich baritone and seemed about to break into song or laughter.  His eyes, those same cold eyes from Fort Bridger, now seemed filled with goodwill and laughter, as well.  “Welcome to my inn.  I’m afraid I neglected to ask your names on our previous meeting.”
          Billy smiled at the bigger man and made the introductions. “I’m Billy Calhoun, this big fella is Jim Deal, the kid over there is Hans Bruner, and the one with the beard is Pop Schramm.  On this side is our trail boss, Frank Cavanaugh.”
          Our host grinned.  “I’m pleased to meet you all, gentlemen.  My name is Porter Rockwell.”
          Well, that named dropped like a cannonball in a washbasin.  From the corner of my eye I saw Deal jerk his head up and Hans’s chair drop back to all four legs as he leaned forward. Billy started to jump up and grabbed for his gun.  My hand dropped over his just as Jim’s big arm swept backward, knocking Billy and his chair in a heap behind the table.  Everyone in the room had turned to watch and every one of them now had a gun showing.
          “Billy, we are Mister Rockwell’s guests and it’s not polite to shoot your host in his own place.  I’m certain that whatever you intended would best be put off until later.  Mister Rockwell, my apologies, sir, for our actions.  It’s only that your name has gained some fame, and we are rough men who are not accustomed to notoriety.  Will you join us, sir?”
          “But, Cap’n,” Billy protested, “This man is a killer…”
          Before another word could be spoken, Rockwell placed his fist on his hips and towered over the boy, scowling.  I noticed that Pop seemed amused and decided to wait and see what was going to happen.
          “A killer? Aye, I am. We all are here, each and every one.  Oh, yes, we are a vicious gang, we are.  His eyes blazed madly in his re face and his voice boomed.  “Why, we did in a youngster about your age only last week as he sat in the very chair you’re in now.”  The room had become still and expectant as he continued.  “It was terrible.  It was horror to see, the way we did it, too.”  He leaned across the table, his hands on the smooth surface, until his face was only inches from Billy’s.  We stuffed him full of pancakes and sausage and gravy.  He begged for us to stop, but we kept on.  We fed him potatoes, sliced thin and fried in butter, fresh bread, coffee, ice-cold milk, and eggs.  Finally when he could beg no more, we finished him of with strawberries and cream.”
          Billy’s eyes fairly bugged out as he swallowed repeatedly  a number of times.  Then the room exploded in laughter.  Billy blinked rapidly before finally saying, “What a terrible way to go.  Please, I’ve been an awful sinner and deserve no less than that when my time comes.”  He got to his feet and stuck out his hand.  “Mister Rockwell, I’m sorry for actin’ like a jackass.  Will you take My hand?”
          “Gladly!  Barney, will you bring more coffee for these men….and strawberries for everyone except Mister Calhoun.”  Billy looked crushed until Rockwell continued, “For him a double helping.”




   


   

     




   

[Forty Rod]

          Following the strawberries the men sat around and talked of many things.
          “I have been back for a week and have talked to The Prophet”, Rockwell said.  “He wises to meet with you and, I believe may offer to help you settle in Cache Valley, even though you are not of our faith.”
          “Why would Mister Young, or any of the rest of you for that matter, do this for us?”  Cavanaugh was frankly puzzled by this announcement.
          Rockwell leaned back and grinned over at Pop Schramm.  “Well, sir, for one thing we have known Mister Schramm for many years, and Mister Winters as well.  They were here when we came to Zion and have helped us many times, in many ways.  It was Mister Winters who led the Maughn party, our first settlers, into Cache Valley, a place I am certain will be of interest to you.  These men do not travel with scoundrels, Captain Cavanaugh.”  He paused and gazed around the table.  “Also we have noted that you come here with something other than greed.  You have tools, skills, cattle, and equipment.  You have horses and mules.  I am told you have women in your party, as well.”
          “Negro women and negro men.  We also have two children”, Frank told the man.
          “Ah, yes.  You are all Confederate veterans, am I right?  You must realize that slavery has been outlawed throughout the land and among us was never accepted.”
          The look on Frank Cavanaugh’s face was a mixture of sincerity and anger.  “I owned a slave once, Mister Rockwell.  My father owned several.  Neither of us has owned another human in many years.  These people under the leadership of Joseph Goss have joined us of their own free will because it has benefited both of our parties to work and travel together.  If this causes a problem we shall move on to the Pacific territories.”
          A broad smile crossed Porter Rockwell’s face and he nodded once.  Around the room, men turned back to what they had been doing.
          “Very well, then.  I’m glad we agree on that.  Let me ask, are any of your people Mormon?”
          Frank looked around at the others for a moment.
          “Not that I know of.  It’s never come up an’ I never thought to ask.  I’ve always considered a man’s faith to be between him an’ his God.  Why, is it necessary?”
          “Not at all”, Rockwell assured him.  “I’m just getting to know more about you.  Are any of you craftsmen?  Forgive my asking, but as I’ve explained, I’m getting t know you so I can suggest ways for you to fit in to out society, and it upon your answers that The Prophet will base his decisions.  I trust you’ll understand.”
          “Yeah, well…. Deal is a veterinarian and pretty good at patchin’ up people, too.  Bruner is a cabinetmaker and all ‘round hand with wood.  He was apprenticed to a master craftsman in …where again, Hans?”
          “Neu Ulm on the Donau…the Danube River.”  The little German spoke in his quiet way, but a note of pride crept into what he said.  Frank and Rockwell both nodded.
          “In New Ulm before he came to our country,” Frank finished.  “We have a harness maker and a smith, the women are skilled at main’ clothes and one is a pretty fair doctor in her own right.  I’m a fair hand as a gunsmith and so is Deal.  Of course, we have Billy Calhoun who is very skilled, an’ at findin’ lost folks, destroyin’ strawberries, an’ bein’ rude to people.”
          “I suppose that last item could be of great value in some circumstances,” Rockwell smiled.  “If we should need anyone insulted or offended, we can call on him, I suppose.”
          “”We can well spare him.  He eats too much to keep around for any length of time.  Very seriously, though, he is a fine hand with stock, a better than average tracker, and works almost hard enough to justify the cost of feedin’ him.  He can do any job you give him, and do it well.”
          Porter Rockwell pushed his chair back and stood up.
          “Nothing better can be said of any man.  Gentlemen, if you are willing, I will call for you at your camp at daybreak tomorrow, and we shall go to visit Brother Brigham.  It has been reported that your stock is on good ground at Brother Richardson’s and your camp is in a good location, well chosen and sound.  Although only two of you will actually get to speak to The Prophet, all are welcome to come visit the city and make yourselves at home there.  Much is taking place and there is much to see.”


   

     




   

       

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 11.

          The next day Jim Deal and I met with Brigham Young, the Mormon prophet.  At first the meeting was quite formal.  President Young and four other men sat at a long table and we sat in chairs facing them.  Porter Rockwell sat further back in the room and didn’t speak.
          “Are you related to Patrick Cavanaugh?”  The head of the Mormon Church sat like a king or high dignitary, flanked by his counselors, all of them dressed in black and looking mighty unhappy.
          “My father’s name was Patrick, sir.”
          “A fine man who put himself in peril to help us in Missouri.  A number of the brethren and their families were given shelter and food by Patrick Cavanaugh.”
          “Sounds like Pa,” I said.  “He never could abide a bully, and always tried to help the under-dog in any situation.”
          The Prophet (The Mormons said The Prophet as though the words were capitalized and I had started thinking of the word as a title myself) peered at me above his full beard, and the others glanced at him as if waiting for a sign.  Finally he leaned a bit forward and shifted his weight.  He nodded slightly.
          “Your father…is he well?”
          “Sir, he died two years ago.  He’s buried near Saint Louis.”
          “For that I am sorry, Captain.  Your father was a fine man and a good friend to us.  Though not of our faith we shall pray that our Heavenly Father take him in and care or him.  Now, Brother Porter has told us of your troubles at Fort Bridger.  If you would explain that?”
          There it was, right out on the table.  I shot that man right in front of Porter Rockwell and a dozen others.  Now it had come time to justify myself to the one man who could make the decision to allow us to stay or force us to move on with winter coming on hard.
          “It was a thing I had to do.  The man, and others, had tried to kill me far east of here, striking from ambush.  They killed my horse, shot me, and left me for dead.  They ran off before stripping me of all of my belongings, for what reason I could not say.  When he saw me he reached to draw his gun and I shot him in self-defense, sir.  I do not enjoy killing others, though it has been necessary before and may become necessary again.”
          One of the men at the table leaned over and whispered to Brigham Young at some length.  They sat for nearly a minute before the President spoke again.
          I have been told that some Indians, some of our Lamanite brethren, came upon a man being attacked by other white men far east of here.  When they moved closer, the attackers took fright and rode away.  I believe that to have been you, sir.  We do not condone nor encourage violence, but we are more than a little familiar with it, Captain Cavanaugh.  We ask that you stay your hand unless there is no other recourse.  If you see no other way, do what you must, fight well and own up to it fully, as you have done here, and you shall be treated fairly.”
          As we were dismissed, Brigham Young spoke to Rockwell.  “Brother Porter, would you remain a moment?”
          Jim and I waited on the street and he commented, “Cap’n…uh, Frank…I can see why some folks would fear these Mormons, or hate ‘em.  They are the workin’est people I ever seen, an’ they’re mighty clannish, too.  Stick together an’ don’t trust outsiders much.”
          “Knowin’ what they’ve been through, would you trust strangers, Jim?”
          Deal grinned and laughed a bit.  “Guess not.  I don’t much trust folks, anyhow.”
          I finished up as Rockwell came to join us.  “Folks are wary of industrious people, Jim.  Look what these Mormons have done in the short time they’ve been here.  This is desert, Jim.  The worse kind of desert, and they got crops growing, they’re buildin’ cities, got animals grazing, they makin’ a real silk purse out of the shabbiest sow’s ear you ever saw.  Of course, there’s that polygamy situation, too.  That just isn’t normal in most of the country and some folks think there’s somethin’ evil about it.”
          Jim looked down at his boots and rocked back on his heels.  “Don’t know about that myself.  I can’t rightly see myself standin’ up to one woman, …not that any woman would have me…much less a whole passel of ‘em.”
          I laughed right out loud at that.  “Me, neither, but I reckon if my religion called for it an’ I believed it was the thing to do, I’d step right up an’ give it my best shot.”
          Rockwell stepped down from the porch and rounded us up, and we walked over toward the block where they were building a temple and a tabernacle.  Those two words sounded Biblical and Jewish to me and I said so.  Rockwell told us that the Mormon religion was based heavily on the Bible and promised to teach us more later…if we were truly interested.  As we walked a number of people spoke to Rockwell and asked after his family and business.  Some tried to discuss some bit of church business, but he put them off for the time being.  He introduced us to some and all treated us with good will and a hearty handshake.


   

[Forty Rod]

          On the northeast corner of the block he left us for a few minutes to conduct some minor bit of business.  Wagons rumbled by constantly, and we saw huge timbers and blocks of stone being unloaded and stacked carefully for later use.  Workmen bustled about without let up, some nodding and looking us over quickly when they ventured near.  As I watched Jim leaned toward me and commented that this would be a magnificent structure when it was completed.  I simply nodded my agreement silently.
          Rockwell returned with a rolled paper that he opened to reveal a drawing of what the block would look like when done.  Done as if seen from above and behind out position it revealed the great soaring spires of the temple, the gently rounded roof of the tabernacle, the many trees and shrubs all surrounded by a high stone wall.
          “Very impressive”, Jim muttered.
          Rockwell smiled widely and told us, “Those things which are dedicated to he Lord should be.”  He turned and handed the rolled paper to a workman and led us to where we were to meet the rest of our party.  As we walked up, Hans Bruner rushed up and blurted, “Captain Cavanaugh, I have found here my old carving master from Deutschland…from Germany…from home!  He is now a Mormon man.  He works on the tabernacle and has asked me to join with him again and to help with the working.  I will stay here.”
          And just that quickly our party was reduced by one very good man.  That was the long and short of it.  Hans Bruner, proud German, proud soldier, and proud craftsman had traveled halfway around the world to come home.  He gathered his few belongings that same day and moved into he back of the shop where he would be working.  Everyone hated to see him leave but when they saw the excitement in his eyes and the happy anticipation on his face none could ask him to stay with us.
          I told him he money coming from the sale of the cattle and he reached to shake my hand.
          “Captain, keep it for to buy more cows for me.  Someday I need it, but now I want you to invent…No!  That is not the right…ah, yes…to invest it for me.”
          We shook hands and he walked away smiling ad humming.
          Around the fire that night plans were discussed and re-discussed until the women shooed us all off to bed.  It had been decided that we would continue on north to Cache Valley and spend the winter there.  Rockwell had given us a letter of introduction to a man named Cardon, who was the town marshal of the growing settlement. The town had been named Logan and it was not what anyone would call heavily populated yet, but everyone who had been there expected it to grow.  He also sent considerable tine with Pop Schramm and Bearpaw Winters, talking over trails north and how to avoid the fences, crops, and structures of those already established along the route  It was nearly a hundred miles from Richardson’s land to the town and there were many settlements along the way.  These Mormons were a building and improving people of great industry and resourcefulness.         
          …And he cautioned us about the “Indians, red and white” in the area.
          Joe Goss’s folks agreed that they would be best off going with us for now, but had decided amongst themselves to continue on to California come spring.  Our two mountain men had also made plans for when the snow started to disappear.  It seemed that they were “hell bent to see the Wind Rivers, the Sawtooths, and Coulter’s Hell up in the Tetons again before folks started cityin’ the whole dang place up.”
          I looked across the fire at Billy, over at Jim, and finally up at Vance Skabelund.  Well, four would be enough to do the ranching and farming.  We four could stay on and make a home, perhaps permanently, in this place, this town of Logan.


   

     



   

[Forty Rod]

CHAPTER 12

          We moved our herd out just as the first rays started to turn the sky a bright, cold blue.  That night we made camp halfway to Ogden’s Hole.  The afternoon of the eighth day we rode out of a canyon and into the south end of Cache Valley. Groves of trees dotted the valley, standing gray and bare in the patchy snow.  Here and there were dark evergreens clinging to rougher, rockier places, and traces of meandering creeks could be seen all over.  From here were visible the smokes of many fires, alone or clustered together in a half dozen communities scattered rather haphazardly within a few miles of our position.
          Bear Paw Winters led us to one of many  “benches” a couple of miles to the east.  Looking like mesas jutting from the high, rugged mountains running north and south along the east side of the valley, these proved to be the shoreline of a vast ancient sea, now long gone and mostly forgotten.  Where the benches crossed the mouths of canyons in those mountains, rivers had spread out over the benches, eventually cutting through the soil and forming extensions of the canyons through to the valley floor.  Many of these had laid down eons of silt until this, too, was carved away by the water.  The overall impression was of gigantic stairs rising from the existing river bottoms to form several steps of various sizes up the lower portions of the mountains.  At the bottom of one of these, six or seven miles from the town of Logan, protected from wind and weather and with sufficient water for out needs, we set up a strong and snug camp.  Beneath the thin-crusted snow was grass enough for our livestock, cured on the stem and ready for their hungry bellies.
          At daybreak on the second day I pocketed our letter of introduction and took Winters and Schramm with me to seek out the man Paul Cardon and to locate a more permanent winter home for our small community of men and beasts.
          Mister Cardon proved to be a surprise.  Only twenty four years old he was the town Marshal and a First Lieutenant of cavalry in the Logan Minutemen, a local militia and a part of the Mormon’s Nauvoo Legion.  If this weren’t enough, he was also one of those in charge of building the Temple Mill and was surveying a road and building a road east through the mountains to Bear Lake, some forty miles away over rugged granite peaks.
          Cardon was stocky man with wavy light brown hair and a humorous twinkle to his eyes.  He took my letter and read it carefully before placing it in a wallet in his breast pocket, then invited us into his own house.  This solid log building was snug, warm, and surprisingly clean.  Cardon’s wife, Suzanna, a quiet. pleasant woman a few years older that her husband, made us welcome with small cakes and a herb tea which warmed away the last of the chill.  She excused herself to tend to her other business and we heard the voices of children from another room.
          “Mister Cavanaugh, there’s a place south of the river about half way to your present camp.  It is atop the bench close by the base of the mountains.  It may suit your needs.  I believe there is water aplenty and dry grass in abundance.”  He paused and looked away for a second.  “It belongs to a ‘gentile’ woman, a widow named Katherine Raber.  Her husband was about to become a member of our faith, but was killed defending his cattle from Indian raiders.  They ran off most of his bee stock and a few good horses, leaving her with a small herd of eleven dairy cows, three horses, a mule, and the biggest dog you ever saw.  That and two dozen or so laying hens are all she has, except for a small house and barn, all here in town.  I feel certain that you could make a fair agreement rent her land for your use until spring. She doesn’t seem disposed to sell, though she isn’t able to work the land alone.”
          “I see.  Is there other land available?”
   “Some.  Mostly it is further out on the valley floor where the Bear River runs all over the place, and tends to be boggy and unsuitable for either grazing or plowing.  Some of us have tried to make it work, but the solid parts are scattered and difficult to manage.  The rest is subject to sink holes, quicksand, underground water traps.”
   After a pause he went on.  “Thirty miles north is some land you might have…”
   I interrupted him. “Mister Cardon, I want to thank you for your help and advise, and please thank Missus Cardon for her hospitality, too.  If you’ll direct us, we’ll be leavin’ now to visit Missus Raber.”
   He grinned with genuine mirth.  “She’s a headstrong woman, gentlemen.  Be wary, and please let me know if I can ever be of help.”
   After shaking hands all around we left, Schramm and Winters to “get the lay of the land” and me to ride the two short blocks to the widow Raber’s house.  There I found a small structure almost hidden by stacks of firewood and surrounded by what were once flowers before winter stunted them back. As I tied my horse, a huge black and white dog came from behind one stack of wood. He made no threatening move, made no sound, and didn’t so much as show a tooth.  I moved toward the door and he silently moved to block my way. I stopped.
          “Well, Goliath, you’re mighty protective.  Can we come to an agreement that I can knock on the door and you can eat me later?”
   As I stood looking around, trying to decide my next move, I saw clay pots with the remnants of flowers, a well made unpainted picket fence along the side of the house and turning to run behind it, and a small roof above the front step.  This had apparently been intended to protect the stone ‘porch’ from snow.  It had also apparently failed for the porch had been freshly swept clean.
     After several seconds the dog stepped back a pace and barked once.  The door opened and a tall, sturdy woman stepped out with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the glare.  I jerked my hat from my head as she said, “Tiny, move back. It’s alright.  He’s very protective.  May I help you. sir?”
   I caught myself staring at her.  She had hazel eyes and dark blonde hair, was buxom and high-waisted, and her smile set my heart to fluttering.
   “I hope so, Ma’am.  Are you Missus Raber. Mister Cardon said she might have some land I could rent for the winter.  My name is Frank Cavanugh.”
   Her head cocked to one side and she smiled. :I am and I do.  Would you come in?”
   “Well, uh…no Ma’am.  You see, I don’t figger it’d be proper for me to come callin’ when you’re alone.  Not that anythin’ would happen, but I wouldn’t want folks to talk.”
   At this two other women appeared in the doorway.  “I’m hardly alone, Mister Cavanaugh. The community is very protective of single women…and your arrival was announced well in advance.  Do come in, please.”
   The other two women were introduced as Mrs. Maughn and Mrs. Black.  Mrs. Maugh was older and quite matronly and stern.  She was also very direct.
   “Mister Cavanaugh, you are not of our faith?”
   “No, Ma’am, I’m not a Mormon.”
   “What, the, do you wish by coming to Logan.  This is not a gentile town.”
   “Ma’am. I’m aware of that.  I’m just movin’ west, lookin’ for a pace to settle down and raise cattle, horse, crops, and maybe kids.  I spoke to President Young, and he gave me a letter for Mister Cardon.  Seems it’s okay with your Prophet an’ your Marshal that we’re here.”
   Her glare would have cut rust off a gun barrel.  “We have had difficulties with outsiders, young man, and you will be judged by your actions rather than by letters of recommendation.”
   “I reckon so, Ma’am, but aren’t we all judged by The Almighty in the long run?”
   She was slightly flustered at that.  “I only meant that….”
   “Yes, Ma’am, you meant that I’d be watched like a hawk watches a chick and that I’d be run off if I didn’t measure up.  Well, I promise I’ll be good, Ma’am.  I’ll be a perfect citizen.  You won’t have to run me off.”
   The other woman, Mrs. Black, was a girl of about fifteen, plump and cheerful, not given to much talk.  She was trying without much success to hide her amusement from Mrs, Maughn.  Mrs, Raber simply smiled pleasantly and asked if I’d share lunch.

[Forty Rod]

We shared a small meal of potato soup with bacon, corn bread, and milk.  I had been offered coffee, but ice-cold milk sounded mighty good at the moment.
   “What have you heard of my land, Mister Cavanaugh,” Mrs. Raber asked.
   “Ma’am, Mister Cardon described it as grassy with a little water.  He said it was a quarter section up on the bench south of the river.”
   She smiled directly a me and asked, “And what did he tell you of me?”
   Now was my turn to become flustered.  “Well, Ma’am, he…uh…he said you were widowed and that the Indians who had killed your husband had run off most of your stock.  He said he didn’t think you could work the whole place yourself.”
   Her laugh was a soft, deep roll from way down inside.  “Did he mention that I am hard-headed and that I had refused to marry any of the men here?”
   I felt that she was baiting me and decided to play along, even though I could feel my ears burning from embarrassment.  “Mo, Ma’am, he probably didn’t figure the locl gents needed any competition, but he didn’t tell me you were so pretty and fulsome.”  I saw Mrs. Maughn’s jaw drop and Mrs. Black’s sudden wide smile.  “If I’da known that it wouldn’t have taken me so long to get here.”
   With a sly glance sideways at Mrs. Maughn, she leaned forward and boldly stated, “Maybe if you came calling we could solve Brother Cardon’s dilemma concerning me.  What do you think, Mister Cavanaugh?”
   “Now hold on a little, Ma’am.  I just come to see if we could work out a deal for the land.  We don’t have much money and I’ll need to put by before I come courting.  Maybe in a few weeks I could begin and we could then maybe plan on a spring wedding.”
   Mrs. Maughn was positively thunderstruck and Mrs. Black was wiggling like a happy puppy with trying to hold in the laughter.  Mrs. Raber made no effort to hold it in and let go a huge belly laugh.  I joined her.
   Finally she ran down and sighed deeply.  “I’m sorry to put you on the spot, Mister Cavanaugh.  As it happens, these ladies were trying to convince me to marry Missus Maughn’s husband and join their happy family.  He is quite prosperous and has only two wives, and the entire community worries so over my well-being.”  She turned to the other two ladies.  “I am sorry, I really am, but I do thank you for your concern.  Will you forgive my playing and please stay as chaperones until Mister Cavanaugh and I have done our business?”
   We bargained and traded, made offers and countered with other offers , and finally settled on a deal that we both considered fair.
   “Done!”  She stood and offered her hand an I shook it.  “When would you move onto he land, sir?”
   “Before the day is out.  I’d like the ladies in the party to move into the house and get tit ready for the families.  My boys and me can sleep in the wagons until we get somethin’ else put together.”  She excused herself and Mrs, Maughn glare at me something fierce while Mrs. Black glanced at me several times and giggled.  Mrs. Raber returned with a tow-headed boy about eleven years old.
   “This is Aaron Gustafson.  He will lead you to the land and see that you are able to find the water and the boundaries of the property.”
   Mrs. Maughn spoke up at this point.  “Am I to understand that you have women among your party?  Married women, I should hope.”
   “Yes, Ma’am.  There are the Goss family and the Weavers, two Negro families that have traveled with us.  We consider them part and parcel with our party until such time as they decide to move on.  Is that a problem?”
   “I have no problem.  I was simply ensuring that there would be no…untoward behavior.”
   “No, Ma’am, nothin’ untoward about us.  We’re just good simple country folk tryin’ to get by.  I thank you for your interest and your hospitality, ladies, and I’ll take my leave.  Mister Gustafson, if you’ll lead on.”

[Forty Rod]

As we walked from the little house, Pop Schramm and Winters rode up.  I introduced them to the ladies and to Aaron.  Mrs. Raber invited them to step down, but they begged off, saying they had to leave and just wanted to ride out to “the place” with me.
   “Well, I do hope you’ll see fit to stop by for a visit anytime you’re in town, and please bring the others when you come.”
   Old Bear Paw was positively eloquent.  He swept his battered old slouch hat from his silvered head, stood right up in the stirrups, and said, “Ma’am, I’d ride clean across the whole of North America from one ocean-sea to th’ other an’ back agin to visit with you, an’ consider the trip a short one.  Why, Missus Raber, iffen I was a few dozen years younger, these young whelps around here wouldn’t even get a look at you, an’ you’d have to drive me away with a stick.”
   Mister Winters, you are both gallant and sweet.  Thank you so very much.”
   The rustic old man blushed a deep red and looked amazed that he had indeed said such a thing.  As we crossed the river a quarter mile away Pop harrumphed loudly and began.
   “It’s really a miser’ble shame we ain’t got no rondy-voos no more, Winters.  Man, if was to tell a story like that’n, there just wouldn’t be no more Bear Paw Winters.  You’d disappear as sure as did ol’ Cougar Clark did back in forty-eight.  Just vanish.  POOF!!!”
   “What are you babblin’ about, Schramm?  What story are you talkin’ about?”
   Pop whooped ad swung his hat over his head.  “What story?  You’re askin’ what story?  Why, hell’s bells, man the story about you bein’ sweet an’ all, a-charmin’ that pretty little wider woman an’ being so gallant an SWEET!!!  Ol’ Sweet Winters is what them boys’d be callin’ you.  Sweet you are an’ sweet you’d be.”
   Finally Winters drew himself up straight and growled at Pop. “You damned ol’ coot…why, iffen I told half the stories I know about you they’d hang you from a tree or run you nekkid clean outta the whole country.”
   “Oh, izzat so?  Is that a real fact?  Well, sir, I’ve done some things to deserve a hangin’ or bein’ banished, but nobody…NO…BODY…ever called me ‘sweet’!”
   “Aw, shuddup, you dang dried up ol’ turd.”
   Pop turned to me with a big smile.  “Hey, Frank, are you gonna be sparkin’ the Widder Raber?  She seems more your type than she is ol’ Sweet’s.”
   “Dammit, Schramm, if you call me sweet one more time, I’m gonna bend the barrel of you own rifle-gun right around your ears.  You best be payin’ me some attention, man.”
   Partly to prevent another war on the scale of the one we’d finished a couple of thousand miles to the east, and partly to prevent young Aaron Gustafson from getting a education he wasn’t yet ready for, I answered Pop’s question.
   “Boys, I have to tell you, I think Missus Rader is a mighty fine looking woman, and I surely do cotton to her.  She’s got spunk and fire, a good head on her and a sense of humor.  And she can cook.  If I was…I say IF I was…to go courting, her cabin as close as any other.”
   The two men looked at each other and Winters shot a quick wink over at Aaron Gustafson.  “Looks like Frank has been bit by the bug, don’t it?  Sure as mornin’, he’s been stung for good an’ fair.  Guess we best practice callin’ him Mister Raber.”
   They continued to jibe at me until we reached the herd.  After a brief discussion with the others, I started the wagons moving east after Aaron and we swung the herd in behind.
   Jeremiah had ridden his pony up beside the Mormon boy and I heard then talking about the benches we were ascending.  Suddenly Jeremiah blurted out, “Aaron, do you believe the story about this bein’ the bottom of the ocean once?  Pa says we’re a mile or more above the real ocean here.  Do you believe it?”
”Sure do.  I seen sea shells up some of these canyons a time or two when I was up there with Pa.”
“Ah, anybody could have carried some sea shells up here an’ dropped ‘em.  That don’t prove nothin’.”
Not just some sea shells, Jerry, thousands of them.  Maybe millions.  I can show you a cliff loaded with ‘em not far from here, but the biggest batch is up one of the side canyons.  Could be we can go up there sometime an’ I’ll show you.  You’ll see.”

   


   

[Forty Rod]

The cattle moved out onto the flat and settled down.  I guess they figured we were home, too.  There was one step of the ‘bench still higher than we were and the worst of the wind from that canyon missed us.  The grass was knee high or more, sticking up from the patchy snow, and the animals set to munching away on it like it was candy.  Aaron pointed out our boundaries and led us to the cabin.  The building was nothing more than a large barn-like structure, fairly well made, but needing some work.
“Momma says it’s big enough for all of us to sleep indoors.”  Joe Goss stood grinning at me.  “I paced it off and make it twelve feet by forty-eight.  Got a door at each end, but the one on the north end needs work.  We’ll be able to partition the inside off to make several rooms as soon as we get some time.”
I set out to repair a few spots on the sodded roof with Billy lending a hand.  The others unloaded, cleaned up, and mended whatever was needed.  Jim righted a big sheet iron stove, evicted a dozen mice, and got it working in short order.  The chimney still had to be sealed to keep it from leaking smoke, but it would do for the time.   Mrs. Goss was making a list of “things to do” and had a second page going already.  We’d have to patch the adobe, chink in around the windows, put in a flat ceiling to keep out dirt and conserve heat, re-hang the north door, find glass to replace the scraped and waxed hides in the windows…the list went on.  Joe finally hung four lanterns from the rafters and four more from iron brackets on the walls.  The last step was when he and the boys carried in a heavy maple platform rocking chair and set it beside the stove.  He took his wife’s hand and, after he had led her to the chair and seen her settled comfortably into it he declared, “Now this is home.”  In the next moment we all began to clapping softly, the first real gentle applause I had heard in over four years.
The next day was furious with sweeping, filling, and leveling the dirt floor, trenching around the outside, fixing the ‘back’ door, chinking the windows, rearranging the inside, hanging the canvas from the wagons to form makeshift rooms, gathering wood, and taking the Goss parties’ carts apart to make into furniture.
The third day saw a long dining table, crude but more than serviceable, completed, along with wall shelves for dishes and a box of books, and hammocks sung for temporary beds. (”What if I fall out in the middle of the night?”  “Well, Billy, we’ll put you back in an’ Momma will tuck you in real snug.”  “We could always hang him on the wall.  I could carve a peg.”  “Roll him out to sleep with the horses.”  “Don’t see we can do that.  Them horses is mighty finicky who they want sleepin’ with ‘em.)
By week’s end the mountain men and Jim Deal had cleaned out a small spring nearby, drug in enough aspen logs to make a small pole corral for the horses, and had thrown together two brush shelters for he horses and mules.  South of us on the Providence bench, the local militia held a sham battle as a sort of training exercise.  Because of the cold not many people turned out to watch, but I rode over to see.  For having very little experienced leadership and practically no training for the men, they were much better than I had expected.
When it was done, Paul Cardon and a man he introduced as Tom Ricks rode over to where I sat in the bright, cold sun.  Ricks was a solidly built ruddy-faced man who appeared to be fully at home in the outdoors. 
“You’re settling in well?”  Cardon’s question was friendly and open.
“Pretty well, yeah.  It’ll do us for the winter.
Ricks leaned forward in his saddle, stretching his back.  “You cows look to be in pretty good shape, considering.  Are you in need of anything?”
I grinned at him.  “There ain’t much we don’t need, to be honest.  We’ll be comin’ to town fore some things in a day or so.  We need a cook stove, coal oil, coffee, a few blankets…usual stuff, I reckon.”
“Cardon turned to ride away, than paused.  “When you’re done, stop by my home.  It’s time for you to meet some of the rest of the people from the town.”
“I’d like that.  Thanks.”

[Forty Rod]

Folks, this story ain't goin' nowhere an' I don't know how to fix it short of a major rewrite starting right at the beginnin'.

I'm pullin' the plug an' I'm gonna move on to aother project.  Mabe I'll revive this one later on, but for now she's gone.

Thanks for the support.