After lowering Burton’s body into the grave, the men took a break before filling in the hole. Will went to Shanty and patted his nose. He looked the gelding over—the horse seemed unscathed. “Can I take him back to camp?” he asked the corporal.

“Fine by me,” the corporal said with a shrug. “We’ll finish up here and bring the horses back, along with the Snake tribesmen and the prospectors what done the stealing. Report in with Sergeant Crockett when you get back. Let him know we’ll return as soon as we finish burying Burton. But the quartermaster and Drew might have a few words for you.”

Will rode Jonah’s mare and led Shanty back to camp. When he arrived, he turned the horses into the herd and reported to Sergeant Crockett, as instructed.

The quartermaster frowned at him. “You’re McDougall, right?”

Will nodded.

“Didn’t you hear? Drew ordered everyone except the search squad to remain in camp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“They stole my horse, sir.”

Crockett sniffed. After a moment he said, “I need to tell the colonel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go back to the packers’ camp. And stay there.”

The cavalry squad returned to camp late in the afternoon with the prospectors and the Snakes, as well as the stolen horses. Drew held an inquisition, and word of his findings passed quickly through the camp. The colonel determined that a few of the prospectors had acted alone and that the other prospectors had not agreed with the plan to steal the Indian horses. The Indians had their horses back, though the injured horse—one of the prospectors’ mounts—had no hope of recovery and was shot. The Snakes did not blame the cavalry and left. Drew sent the surviving prospectors on their way, even the thieves.

“That’s not right,” Will protested to Joel when he learned the thieves would not be punished for Burton’s death nor for stealing the horses.

“If the Indians don’t care about hangin’ the thieves, why should we?” Joel responded. “They got their horses back. They don’t want white men hung when they ain’t lost any property. If they insist on punishin’ white men, the cavalry’ll go after ’em hard in the future. Maybe start a war. ’Tain’t worth it to ’em.”

After the Indians and prospectors left, Drew called for Will to be brought to his tent. “You, young man,” Drew said with a scowl. “What made you think you could ride off after the cavalry? Your job is to tend mules.”

“The prospectors stole my horse, sir,” Will said, standing straight. “I raised him from a colt.”

“How’d you come to have an Indian horse?” Drew asked.

“He’s half Indian pony. Out of a mare my mother purchased at Fort Laramie in forty-seven. His sire is an Andalusian stallion.”

Lt. Col. Drew raised an eyebrow. “A Spanish stallion?”

“Yes, sir. He’s my fa-father’s stallion.” Will winced at calling Mac his father.

“Who’s your father?”

“Caleb McDougall. Of Oregon City.”

“You sound like a well-educated lad,” Drew said. “Where’d you get your schooling?”

“At the academy in Oregon City. And from my parents. My father attended Harvard, and my mother went to an Ursuline school in New Orleans as a girl.”

“Harvard, hmm?” Drew frowned and rubbed his chin. “Can you write a good hand, boy?”

Will was puzzled. Why did the colonel care if he could write nicely? “I think so, sir.”

“I need a scribe.” Drew stood and showed Will a ledger-lined notebook. “I keep daily records of our distance and the land we pass through. I will owe my superiors a report at the end of our expedition. But I’d rather dictate my notes than write them myself.”

“Yes, sir,” Will said, still confused.

“Your punishment for running away is to scribe for me.” Drew sat again. “Report to my tent each evening after you’ve tended your mules.”

Chapter 38: Business Losses

Mac spent the middle part of July dealing with Samuel Abercrombie’s renewed threats against Zeke Pershing. He convinced the judge to issue a stay of any legal proceedings while the parties dug a ditch to divert some water back onto Abercrombie’s property.

By July 20, Mac was ready to deal with his own investments, and he turned to the pile of correspondence that had built up in his office in town. The top letter in the stack was from Ladd in Portland.

July 13, 1864

Dear Mr. McDougall:

I have had no communication from you in many weeks, and my banking plans are proceeding. I doubt I can save a place for you as a shareholder in this enterprise. My subscription is now filled.

I hope that someday in the future, we can do business together . . .

Mac frowned. The letter had been sent a week earlier, and he hadn’t noticed it while he dealt with family matters and Abercrombie’s interference. It was tempting to blame his inattention on others—particularly on Abercrombie—but his investments were his responsibility. And now he had lost an opportunity.

He needed to respond to salvage the relationship he’d developed with Ladd. He picked up his quill and wrote:

July 20, 1864

Dear Sir:

Due to matters of a personal nature, I have only just read your communication of July 8. I understand your need to seek other shareholders, and if you have already done so, I wish you the utmost success in your endeavor. If shares remain to be had, I am still interested, and I would appreciate the opportunity to work with you on your banking project and on other developments in the future.

Respectfully,

There, Mac thought, as he signed his name. That was the best he could do.