“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?”
“I would, sir. It’s very pretty.”
Drew continued describing the flora and fauna they’d seen through the day. He also recounted the debacle leading to Burton’s death. Will’s arm ached by the time Drew bade him leave, but he scrawled in his own journal:
July 20, 1864. Camped in Goose Lake Valley after making 18 miles today. I scribed for Lt. Col. Drew this evening. The work is harder than it sounds.
The next day was hot, and the caravan passed through both forests and parched earth in Goose Lake Valley. Will relished the time under canopies of pines and firs. Birds chirped as the wagons and mules passed, and the occasional deer watched them while grazing. By contrast, grasshoppers and ground squirrels were the only signs of life where sage and scrubby brush sprouted in open red earth. Later in the day, the forests gave way to marshes that sucked at horses’ and mules’ feet.
As they rode through Goose Lake Valley, Jonah seemed morose. “What’s wrong?” Will asked.
“It’s my birthday,” Jonah muttered. “I’m seventeen. And here I am pulling mules to who the hell knows where.”
Will could have retorted that it had been Jonah’s idea to run away, but he just let Jonah talk.
“I wish I had one of Esther’s white cakes.” Jonah licked his lips. “Light as a feather. Covered with berries and whipped cream. Instead, I’m eatin’ stewed beef, tough as leather.”
