He paid the boy and shook his head. “No answer now.”
After the lad left, Mac leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He thought of old Andrew McDougall—brusque, blustery, and always right. Mac had feared his father throughout childhood. The youngest of three boys, Mac was never good enough for his father, or so he was led to believe.
As Mac grew to adulthood, he realized he and his father simply had different approaches to life and livelihood. After seeking his father’s approval for years, Mac relinquished that hope and relished making his own way in Oregon and California. Yet, he still wanted his father’s respect. Many of Mac’s decisions in the West had been designed to prove himself worthy of his father’s regard.
Their communications in recent years dealt almost entirely with money—what investments each thought the other should make in their respective spheres. Through their correspondence, Mac came to see that Andrew McDougall did class his youngest son’s experience.
It was so like both his mother and brother to demand his presence, Mac thought, without any regard to Mac’s circumstances in Oregon. No mention of the difficulty of travel. No mention of his family. No mention of his need to attend to his own affairs.
When Mac showed his brother’s telegram to Jenny later that day, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mac—your poor father. Will you go to him?” She knew relations were strained between Mac and his family, but his father was near death. He might feel he had to go, even if she needed him home. With William gone and a new child on the way, she wanted Mac with her. But she wouldn’t keep him, she resolved.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked, sitting heavily on the sofa beside her.
She cupped his cheek in her hand. “If ever you were to return to Boston, this would be the time to go.”
“But Will—”
Tears came to her eyes. It pleased her that Mac mentioned William’s absence first. “I can manage.” She said it as much to convince herself as to convince Mac. “I have coped for four months without William. I can cope without you also if I must. I was alone for two years when William was little.”
“I wouldn’t be gone that long, Jenny.” Mac sighed. “But I worry about leaving you. Quite apart from Will, Jacob Johnson might still be in Oregon. The sheriff has never found his hideout.”
“He must have left the area,” Jenny said. Truly, she thought, if he were still around, they would have heard something. “This could be your last chance to see your father. You must go.”
Mac nodded, but he seemed unconvinced.
Mac dithered all evening. His best hope of finding his father alive was to leave for Boston immediately. But he didn’t want to go. Not with the situation in Oregon so unsettled. Between Will’s departure, Jacob Johnson’s attack, and his business problems, he thought he should remain at home.
But he hadn’t seen his parents or brothers in almost eighteen years. His parents had demanded his return to Boston often through the years, and he had always put them off. He’d been angry at them when he left for Oregon for several reasons. His father had demanded that Mac join his brother’s law firm. His mother had dismissed a maid who later died—preventing Mac from righting a wrong he’d done to the girl.
Families were complicated, Mac thought as he sipped his whiskey in his home study. He’d tried to be a better parent than his own parents had been. He thought he’d done a decent job of fathering. Even with Will and Maria, his adopted offspring. He did everything he could to treat them the same as his children by blood.
In part the adoptions had been recompense for the sins of his youth. The maid had been pregnant with Mac’s child, though he hadn’t known it until after her death. Surely raising Will and Maria as his own was sufficient atonement for his past misdeeds. Both children had come into being through unfortunate circumstances, and Mac had given them each a better life than they would otherwise have had. Will and Maria—and their entire family—were happier because Mac had taken on their care.
And he’d come to love them both dearly.
Mac’s reflections on his own childhood and youth did nothing to resolve his conflict over going to Boston. As he tossed and turned in bed that night, he decided to send his brother a telegram in the morning to find out more about his father’s condition.
If his father had already died, he could take his time about leaving. If his father were improving, there would similarly be no rush in returning to Boston. In any event, it would take him weeks to return East.
The next morning, he took his telegram to the office in Oregon City. As he gave it to the clerk, he remembered that early March morning when he’d taken Will and Cal to Portland—only five months ago. So much had happened since.
DATE: 25 AUGUST 1864
TO: OWEN MCDOUGALL BOSTON
FROM: CALEB MCDOUGALL OREGON CITY
REQUEST UPDATE ON FATHER REGARDS TO YOU AND MOTHER
Chapter 43: Indian Encounters
The militia unit and the wagon trains rested at Isaac’s Springs, allowing the horses, mules, and cattle to graze their fill. The first evening, Drew made sure the howitzer was ready to defend the camp. “There are likely Paiute in the area,” he said. “We need to be prepared. I want the artillery manned at all times. And double the guards on our animals. Be ready to shoot.”
Despite ordering extra protection for the camp, each day Drew led lightly armed reconnaissance parties to explore the surrounding valley. Then he called Will to scribe. “In addition to frequent water sources,” he dictated about their surroundings, “there is an abundance of excellent bunch grass. The land rises in steppes, one above the other, forming Warner’s Mountain.”
When Will accompanied the scouting party one day, the cavalry soldiers pointed out signs of Paiutes. “We’ve left the Klamaths behind,” Drew said. “We’re in Winnemucca’s territory now.”
“Who’s Winnemucca?” Will asked.
“A Paiute chief. They claim their land runs from here south to the Old Emigrant Road, east to the Humboldt River, and west to the Sierra Nevadas.”
“Is Winnemucca likely to attack us for entering his territory?” Will asked.
Drew shrugged. “Don’t know much about him. Paulina is the greater Paiute problem in these parts. I still think he and his men are following us. I don’t know why they haven’t approached us, but it makes me suspicious.”
On August 17, after three days at Isaac’s Springs, the expeditionary force and the wagons under their protection moved on. They traveled twenty-four miles through more desert south from Isaac’s Springs on a gradual descent to Pueblo Valley.
Vertical rock walls bounded the valley on either side. A small creek ran through a deep crevice in one cliff. Grass grew rampant along the creek’s banks, and there was enough space for the entire caravan to camp.
They still saw signs of Indians, as they had since they approached Warner’s Mountain. But once in the valley beyond the mountain, the tracks left by the local tribes became more frequent.
“They’re here,” Drew murmured to Will as they worked that evening. “Indians. All around us. They go into caves in the hills in the evenings, but they’re following us by day.”
