Once the children were soothed and Cordelia left with Abe, Will could overhear pieces of the women’s conversation from the other room. Mostly he ignored their talk, until he heard his name mentioned.
“Does Will know yet?” Esther asked.
Mama murmured some response that Will didn’t hear.
“But Mac isn’t his father,” he thought Esther said. Will shook his head. He must have misunderstood. Of course, Pa was his father.
Chapter 11: A Stranger in Town
On Saturday, the day after he visited the Abercrombies, Will went to Myers Mercantile, the general store their family patronized, to buy thread for Mama. “All I need is black,” she told him. “I’m sure you can get that right.” He wouldn’t have wanted to sort through the blues or greens, but he agreed—black thread he could handle. “And here’s an extra nickel,” she said. “Bring home some penny candy for the children.”
He walked to the store, glad to be on his own for an hour or so. He picked out the thread under the eagle eye of the proprietor’s wife. Then he stood beside the candy jars on the counter, trying to choose. A group of men sat by the stove smoking and talking.
“Got a little extra spending money, boy?” one man asked with a grin. He wore a Confederate kerchief, but otherwise had no military paraphernalia.
“Yes, sir,” Will said, continuing to inspect the candy—peppermint or molasses?
“Take your time, Will,” the man behind the counter told him.
“You lived in these parts long?” another man near the stove asked. He had a beaten-down Confederate cap on his head. Was this a group of deserters? Will wondered.
“All my life,” Will said. “I was born while my parents were emigrating.”
“Where’d they come from?” the first man asked idly, striking a match to light a cigarette.
“Mama lived in Missouri and Pa in Boston.” Then Will told the proprietor, “Two cents’ worth of peppermints, please. Two of molasses, and a penny of licorice.”
The store owner wrapped the candy in parchment paper.
“Boston, eh?” the man in the kerchief said. “What’s your name, boy?”
“William McDougall,” Will said, handing over his nickel and taking the candy.
“McDougall.” The man glowered at Will. “My name’s Johnson. Jacob Johnson.” He seemed to want a response from Will.
Will nodded as he turned to leave the store. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Johnson.”
Mac rode Valiente out to Zeke Pershing’s claim again Saturday afternoon. He’d researched the descriptions of both Zeke’s and Samuel Abercrombie’s deeds filed in the land office. Both deeds predated the survey of Oregon completed in 1855, but the descriptions were clear enough—the land was described in terms of distance from the road into Oregon City, which had existed when the men staked out their claims in 1847. Neither deed referenced the creek that formed the boundary between their land before this spring’s change of course. Where the creek flowed was irrelevant to the men’s ownership rights, and Zeke had a strong claim to the land.
Mac told Zeke the results of his research, and said, “I’d like to talk to Abercrombie about the deeds. You want to come with me?”
“You think I should?” Zeke asked. “Might be, he’d take it better if you talk to him alone.”
Mac grinned. “He doesn’t like me much better than he likes you.”
“All right, then.” Zeke nodded, then grabbed his hat and coat and saddled his gelding.
As they rode to Abercrombie’s claim, Mac asked, “Seen any strangers around?”
Zeke shook his head. “Our hen house was broken into a few nights back, and Hannah said someone stole most of the eggs laid that day. Wish old Blackie was still here. New hound ain’t near the guard dog Blackie was. We didn’t hear nor see nobody.”
“I’ve seen some scurrilous men in town,” Mac said. “No problems yet, but they don’t look like they’re up to any good. They sit around the saloon or the stores, watching people and gabbing.”
When they arrived at Abercrombie’s house, Samuel came outside before they could knock. “What’d’ya want?” the old man asked as they dismounted.
“I’m following up on our conversation earlier in the week,” Mac said. “I looked into your deed, to see what it said about the creek.”
“I ain’t asked you to,” Abercrombie said. “This is twixt me’n Pershing.”
“Just thought I might help,” Mac said, trying to keep his tone calm. “Turns out, neither deed says anything about the creek forming your boundary. Your property lines are measured in metes and bounds from the road. The hilltop at the corner is also referenced.”
“That don’t mean nothin’,” Abercrombie said.
Mac ignored his comment. “The description makes sense—we filed our claims late in the year, when the creek was probably dry or nearly so.”
“That’s right,” Zeke said. “I was surprised the next spring to see so much flowin’ water.”
“I need the water,” Abercrombie stated.
“I don’t mind you having a portion of it,” Zeke said. “If you’d asked, I would’ve told you so. I’d be glad to help you dig a ditch or a well, as long as at least half the runoff still goes through my land.”
Abercrombie eyed Zeke. Mac could see the old man trying to find a reason to object to Zeke’s offer. “Lemme think on it,” Abercrombie said.
“If you two want me to draw up an agreement, I’ll do it,” Mac offered. “No charge. But for now, I have other business in town.”
