Nate raced back toward the dining room. Will collared him again. “Sorry,” Nate said. “Now Mr. Abercrombie wants some ham.”

Family? Will grumbled to himself. They were more trouble than help. The door knocker sounded, and he greeted the next guests.

After all the company had arrived, Will and his friend Jonah found chairs in the dining room near the laden table. They could keep their plates full of food and hear the conversations flowing around them. “You been goin’ to school?” Jonah asked Will.

Will nodded. “Mama and Pa make me.” His face brightened. “But they say this is my last year at the academy. Don’t know what I’ll do when the term is over.”

“I ain’t goin’ to school no more,” Jonah said. “Daniel wants me workin’ with him on the farm.”

“Does Esther agree?”

“She says if I don’t want no more schoolin’ and Daniel’ll keep me busy, that’s fine by her.”

“Are you going to file your own land claim once you’re old enough?” Will asked. Some of the Pershing men had filed claims, others worked as hired hands. The original Pershing claims were six hundred and forty acres, before the Homestead Act reduced the maximum size of a claim to three hundred twenty acres. Six-forty was enough land to support several families.

Jonah shrugged. “I ain’t decided. I still have several years afore I can. Maybe I’ll prospect for a while first. Like Joel.”

Joel was one of Jonah’s older brothers. Joel had left to prospect for gold in California not long after the Pershings arrived in Oregon. He returned to Oregon City for short visits occasionally, and Will had met him. “Does Joel want you?” he asked Jonah.

“I dunno.” Jonah bit into a slice of bread slathered with butter. “Maybe I won’t ask him. Just go.”

“Esther and Daniel will never let you do that.” Will couldn’t imagine taking off for southern Oregon by himself. His parents would be frantic with worry—and Esther and Daniel would be equally concerned if Jonah left without telling them.

Old Samuel Abercrombie lumbered into the dining room to refill his plate. “That younger brother of yourn didn’t bring me no ham. I still got a hankering for it,” he said to Will.

“May I help you, sir?” Will said. It was his parents’ party, so he needed to be polite.

“I’ll get it myself.” Samuel joined other men beside the now mostly bare ham bone. “What do you hear about Indians near the Rogue?” he asked the sheriff, close enough for Will to hear.

“None of my affair,” Sheriff Thomas responded. “I’m only responsible for Clackamas County. Only news I get is what I read in the paper. Last I read, Rogue River Valley is teeming with tribes returning to spring camps.”

“Those savages need a firm hand,” Samuel said. “No Indian’s a good Indian.”

The men around Samuel and the sheriff talked on and on about the tribes in the south. They all seemed to believe the Indians should be removed from the lucrative farmland and mines in Oregon.

“What do you think about the tribes?” Will asked Jonah as the men moved on.

“Makes sense to me, what they say,” Jonah said. “Whites make better use of the land than Indians, whether it’s farmin’ or minin.’ They hunt for their food—they can do that anywhere.”

“Not all land can support hunting,” Will said.

Jonah shrugged. “There’s always game, if you know where to find it.”

As he chewed his food, Will wondered whether Indians were as savage as Mr. Abercrombie said. They didn’t dress the same as whites, they didn’t live in houses, they did little farming. But Pa didn’t think Indians were all bad.

Plus, Maria was part Indian, and she certainly wasn’t a savage. She was as genteel as Mama, sometimes more so, because Mama could get mad, and Maria never did.

Mac noticed Will and Jonah tucked away in the dining room. Spying the frown on Will’s face, Mac walked toward the boys. As he entered the room, he heard Abercrombie ranting about savages. That was only one of many differences Mac had with Abercrombie. In Mac’s opinion, many of the problems between the races resulted from how the whites squeezed the tribes off their land, precluding them from living as they had for generations.

He joined the group of men, if only to rankle Abercrombie. “If we let the tribes have portions of their native lands, they’d be happier and leave the white farmers alone,” Mac said.

As Mac anticipated, his comments set Abercrombie to pontificating. Samuel might be in his sixties now, but he was as cantankerous as ever. Age hadn’t made the old fool worse because he’d always been a difficult man.

But Samuel was a good man to have at one’s side in a fight, Mac thought. Mac had been on hunts and posses with Abercrombie, and the codger could shoot with the best of them.

To change the subject, Mac mentioned the rumors he’d heard in the general store the day before. “Men in Myers Mercantile told me there are Secessionist deserters in the area.”

“Be damn proud to have ’em in our state,” Abercrombie said. “I’d help out any Tennessee boys what come to Oregon.”

“If they’re deserters,” Samuel’s son Daniel said, “they’re probably not good for much. They’re running away from the War.”

“If they’s Tennessee Rebels, they’s good men,” Samuel said with a sniff. “Army ain’t for everyone.”

“Be forewarned,” Mac said. “Have a care, particularly out in the country. They’ll hide in your barns and steal your food. Maybe kill some chickens. And scare your women.”

Zeke Pershing chimed in. He didn’t usually mingle with Samuel Abercrombie. There was bad blood between the two men. “I’ve dealt with marauders afore. Men on the run can be dangerous. They have nothin’ to lose. Thanks for the warning, Mac.”

Jenny signaled to Mac that it was time to slice the cakes. He left the men and moved toward his wife, nodding at Will as he left the dining room.

That evening, when the guests had left, Will helped carry plates and platters to the kitchen. Once the house was returned to order, Will headed toward the stairs to his bedroom. Pa called him into his small home study. It was a windowless room, lit only by an oil lamp Pa kept on his desk. No wonder Pa spent most of his time at his office in town.

“Thanks for your help today, son,” Pa said, barely looking up from the document in front of him. A glass of whiskey sat at Pa’s elbow.

“You’re welcome.” Will stuck his hands in his pockets, wondering if that was all Pa meant to tell him.

After a moment, Pa turned his full gaze on Will. “Did you hear Samuel Abercrombie spout off about the tribesmen this afternoon?”

Will nodded.

“What did you think of what he said?”

“You’ve always told me Indians act the way they do because of how they’re treated.”

Mac picked up a cigar and motioned Will to have a seat. He lit the cigar and puffed on it to get it going. “Yes, that’s what I’ve told you. But what do you think?”

Will frowned. What did Pa want from him? “I suppose same as you. The Indians aren’t like us, but the white landowners don’t treat them well.”

Pa raised an eyebrow. “You wrote a fine essay on slavery a few weeks back. I was proud of you. Just like Negroes, the tribesmen can do whatever they’re allowed to do, whatever they’re educated to do. Our laws don’t let them own land, not full bloods anyway, and if we cut off their livelihoods, they’ll turn to slovenliness. And from there to violence.”

Will considered Pa’s comments—they made sense. But why did men like Samuel Abercrombie believe so differently? He supposed that’s why the Secessionists had rebelled. And why there were frequent skirmishes with Indian tribes in Southern Oregon.

Pa sat smoking, and Will thought some more. Then he said, “Pa, what did you think about what Mr. Abercrombie said about the deserters?”