At Mac’s request, Jenny followed him upstairs when he returned home. He peeled off his sweat-stained shirt and handed it to her. Then he said, “Jacob Johnson talked to Abercrombie. About us.”
She sat on the bed, twisting his shirt in her hands. “Oh, no.” She thought again of that evil day, as she did whenever she heard Johnson’s name.
“Samuel didn’t seem to know much.”
“He’s so unpredictable, Mac.” If Samuel Abercrombie started talking to others in town, it wouldn’t merely be the end of Jenny’s reputation. The gossip would hurt the children as well. Particularly the girls.
And most especially Maria, who was already the subject of many raised eyebrows among women in town. Some girls in her former school had called her a squaw. The girl’s mixed blood would become a bigger issue when she reached marriageable age—which she was rapidly approaching.
“You have to stop him, Mac,” she said, holding her belly. Soon there would be another child to bear the brunt of the gossip.
“We’re fortunate,” Mac said. “Abercrombie likes you. I don’t think he’ll say anything.”
“But you can’t be sure,” she whispered. “He gets so angry. Maybe we should send Maria away.”
“Maria?” Mac said. “Whatever for?”
“With the new baby coming, I won’t be able to teach her properly. Hannah says Abigail Duniway still needs a helper. Maybe Mrs. Duniway would be a good role model for Maria. She certainly has shown gumption in starting a girls’ school in Lafayette.”
Mac kissed the tip of her nose. “You have just as much gumption as Mrs. Duniway. I want Maria here. She should be helping you, not some schoolmarm.”
That night, Mac lay awake as Jenny slept. He worried after hearing Jacob Johnson was in the area. No good could come of Johnson remaining near Mac’s family.
The next morning, Mac went to see Sheriff Thomas. He found the lawman enjoying his first smoke of the day. His deputy, Adam Albee, sat reading the newspaper. Thomas offered Mac a cigar, which Mac took.
After Mac told the men about his conversation with Samuel Abercrombie, the sheriff frowned at him. “Are you sure there ain’t more to your past with Johnson than you’re lettin’ on?”
Mac shook his head. “I told you I killed his father while defending my wife. That’s reason enough for him to keep bothering us.”
“I suppose so.” Sheriff Thomas puffed on his cigar. “Now, as to Abercrombie’s threats—”
“I want to stop him from slandering my wife,” Mac said, pointing his cigar at the sheriff in emphasis. “What can you do?”
“Not much.” Sheriff Thomas puffed again. “I can have a word with Abercrombie, but that old coot don’t listen to no one.” Albee snorted in agreement from behind his newspaper. “Probably best to leave Abercrombie be,” the sheriff continued.
“What about Johnson?” Mac asked.
“We got our eye out, but he must have a place where he can hide out. If we find him, we can bring him in for assaulting your wife and son last spring. But I probably can’t keep him locked up for long. Not unless he causes more harm.” Sheriff Thomas cocked an eyebrow at Mac. “Or unless you tell me he’s committed other crimes in the past.”
Mac swallowed and nodded. “Let me know if you find him.”
Jenny spent July 26 preparing for Lottie’s birthday party. The girl would turn seven the next day.
“Do you want chocolate cake or spice?” Jenny asked her daughter.
“Chocolate.” Lottie was definite. “With lots and lots of white icing.”
“I think Mrs. O’Malley and I can manage that,” Jenny said, smiling.
“And I want a present,” Lottie said. “Something big.” Her face was solemn.
“What is it?” Jenny asked, smoothing the little girl’s curls away from her face. Lottie looked a lot like Jenny had as a child, though her ringlets were prettier than Jenny’s straight hair.
“I have to whisper it,” Lottie said.
“All right.” Jenny leaned her ear down next to Lottie’s face.
“I want Will home,” Lottie murmured, tears clouding her blue eyes.
Jenny caught her daughter close in a hug. “So do I, precious,” she whispered back. “So do I.”
Chapter 39: Becoming Drew's Scrivener
After Burton’s death, the expeditionary force remained in Goose Lake Valley until Wednesday, July 20. That morning, Drew ordered the militia and wagons to move farther up the valley. They traveled eighteen miles along the east side of Goose Lake.
When they crossed the old Southern Oregon Emigrant Road, more wagons from Humboldt County and elsewhere in California joined them. These wagons were also bound for Fort Boise and wanted the security the cavalry provided.
Now, all told, Drew’s militia force escorted over twenty wagons and over thirteen hundred horses, mules, and cattle. Some of the wagons were pulled by oxen, which were slower than the mules. The caravan stretched along the route, making it difficult to safeguard during the day. The soldiers rode back and forth along the wagons and packers, urging them to a faster pace.
“Cavalry don’t have to push us,” Joel said. “Our mules keep up with the horses, even with their packs. But them oxen creep along like snails.”
“Are we gonna go this slow all the way to Boise?” Jonah asked.
“Hard to tell.” Joel blew out a breath. “This ain’t what I bargained for. Reconnaissance is one thing, but pokin’ along ahead of a bunch of cows is another.”
“But we can’t leave, can we?” Will knew the answer even as he asked the question.
“Hell, no.” Joel spat. “We signed a contract. And we’re back on per diem now, so we get paid our daily rate, no matter where Drew takes us, no matter how slow we go. ’Tain’t fun, but we ain’t got a choice.”
That evening after he unpacked his mules, Will grabbed a quick supper, then headed to Drew’s tent. “I’m ready, sir,” he announced when he arrived.
The colonel looked at him bemused, as if he’d forgotten his earlier orders. Will wondered if Drew really meant to use him as a scribe.
“Come in, boy,” the colonel finally said. “McDougall, isn’t it? Let’s get to work.” He rummaged in his camp desk and handed Will a quill, ink bottle, and paper. Then he started to dictate. Will scribbled to write as fast as Drew talked, trying to keep his penmanship as neat as Mama would have it.
“We left Goose Lake Valley at a point twenty-one miles down the east side of the lake and were joined by several heavy trains from California, including several families, all moving toward Boise.” The colonel stopped. “Are you getting this all down?”
“Yes, sir,” Will muttered as he continued writing.
“We diverged to the east, and soon found the old Southern Oregon Emigrant Road, which passes around the south end of Goose Lake, and thence the road heads westward into either Shasta or Rogue River Valleys. Our reconnaissance force entered the lower portion of a beautiful glade—” Drew paused and asked, “Would you call this a beautiful glade, McDougall?”
