Chapter 1: Arrow Rock

 

March 24, 1847. I killed a man today. The Bible says thou shalt not kill. How did it come to this?

 

Mac McDougall looked up from his journal. He had awakened this morning in a warm cabin on the steamboat Aurora. Now he shivered beside a smoldering campfire, only a tarp protecting him from the cold Missouri spring. An unknown baggage of a girl slept at his feet.

And he had killed a man.

Mac had traveled a month already, hundreds of miles, before boarding the Aurora at St. Louis several days earlier. Then the boat steamed up the Missouri River toward Independence through a storm that pounded rain on deck and shore.

The morning had dawned bright after days of dreary skies. Valiente, Mac’s black Andalusian stallion, pranced and whinnied, eager to escape the confines of the boat. When the Aurora docked beneath the cliffs of Arrow Rock, Mac decided to ride horseback to an upstream port while the sidewheeler churned up the next stretch of river.

“You’ll reach Waverly before we do,” the steamship captain told him. “Thirty-five miles by road. Two day ride, easy. Sixty miles on the river, and we stop at ports to trade.”

Mac packed food and the journals he’d kept on his travels thus far. He strapped on his holster and pistol and lashed his rifle to his saddle. All the men in the West were armed, and Mac was glad of his experience as a boy, hunting with his grandfather.

He urged Valiente up the bluff above the river. From the top, he smiled at the rolling hills around him—wanderlust filling his soul. He’d been to law school, but the law could wait, despite what his father said. When Mac read of the explorer John Frémont’s travels to Oregon Territory, he decided to see the western land for himself. Of course, there were other reasons to leave Boston, but Mac wouldn’t dwell on those. Not now.

He rode along the muddy main street of Arrow Rock, passing a few small shops that lined the boardwalk. A dog lounged on the porch outside a dry goods store. A blacksmith shop stood down the road with a stone tavern opposite.

At a storefront with a wooden shingle advertising a post office, Mac dismounted and hitched Valiente to a rail. After entering the store, he bound his journals with brown paper and twine and mailed them to Boston. Then he walked Valiente to the smithy and asked the farrier to check the horse’s shoes.

“One of those Ay-rabs?” the man asked, picking up a front hoof.

“No, he’s Andalusian, a Spanish horse. More docile than most stallions.” Mac wiped his hand across his face, sweating in the hot smithy.

“Where you headed?”

“Oregon.”

The farrier completed his inspection of Valiente’s hooves. “Shoes look good. But he’s an awful fine mount to put on the trail. He’s no pack mule.” He slapped the horse softly on the rump.

“He can go the distance.” Mac handed the man a few coins.

“Thank you, sir. And good luck.”

Mac led Valiente across the street and tied him outside the tavern. When the horse snuffled at his shirt pocket, Mac chuckled and pulled out a sugar candy.

Inside the tavern, a girl folded linens behind a tall table. Scrawny thing, with soft blue eyes and wavy brown hair pulled back from her face. Her calico dress was tight on her, but neat and clean. No ruffles like his mother and sisters-in-law wore.

She glanced up, not quite meeting his eye. “Can I help you?”

“You serving dinner soon? I’m looking for something other than steamboat food.”

“Noon,” she said. “Roast chicken. Nothing fancy, just plain home cooking.”

“Sounds fine.”

She skittered out of the room.

Hearing a cough behind him, Mac turned and saw two men in the corner. The older of the two sat on a stool. He was neatly dressed, and a worn holster rode his hip like he’d been born with it. The younger man, wearing a polished new holster, lounged against the wall.

The older man squinted. “Howdy, stranger,” he said. “Passing through?”

“Yes, sir,” Mac said.

“How long you here for?” The man’s eyes narrowed further.

“Just dinner. I’m Caleb McDougall.” Mac held out his hand.

“Isaac Johnson.” The man stood to shake Mac’s hand, then gestured at the younger man. “My son Jacob.”

A clock sounded twelve, and a dinner bell rang. Mac followed the Johnsons into the dining room, where a long table was laid with several settings. A bar sectioned off the far corner, shelves full of bottles behind it. Apparently, Mac and the Johnsons were the only customers. They sat themselves at one end of the table.

The girl Mac had seen earlier brought in a tray that must have weighed half of what she did. She set it on a side table, and moved platters of steaming food to the dining table—chicken, green beans seasoned with ham and onions, fresh baked bread, pickles, and relishes. Clinking dishes and flatware broke the silence while the three men loaded their plates.

As the girl put the last dish on the table next to Jacob Johnson, she gasped. The young man’s arm circled her waist. She stiffened, slid away, and scurried to the kitchen. Mac frowned at Johnson’s familiarity, but he didn’t know enough to interfere, so he kept quiet.

During the meal the older Johnson man—Isaac—asked Mac where he was from. When Mac replied, “Boston,” Isaac asked where he was headed.

“Oregon,” Mac said.

“You ridden all this way?” Jacob Johnson asked.

“Took the train from Boston to Syracuse. Horseback to Pittsburgh,” Mac said. “Then steamships—down the Ohio, then up the Mississippi, now up the Missouri. I’m on the Aurora from St. Louis to Independence.”

“We seen a fair number of emigrants pass through,” Isaac said. “But you don’t look like you need no free land.”

“I’m not planning to stay,” Mac said.

“Why you going then?” Jacob asked.

“Adventure,” Mac replied with a grin.

The girl returned to remove empty platters and plates, glancing furtively at all three men. As she lifted a large dish beside Jacob, the young man put his arm around her again and pulled her close. “Have you missed me, Jenny?” he asked.

“Don’t,” she whispered, blanching as she sidled away.

“Fetch me and Jacob some ale, girl,” Isaac ordered.

Jenny hurried to the bar. The two men grinned. She came back with two pints and handed them to the Johnsons.

Jacob emptied his mug and asked for another. When Jenny returned with more ale, Jacob ran his hand down her arm. She slapped him lightly.

Isaac sniggered. “You should be more friendly.”

Jenny rushed out of the room, and the two men laughed.

“Son, go after her,” Isaac said.

Jacob shrugged. “There’s time.”

“She doesn’t seem to welcome your attentions,” Mac said, unable to stay quiet any longer.

Isaac sipped his ale. “Just the innkeeper’s stepdaughter. A mousy little thing. But she’s welcomed us in the past, if you know what I mean.”

Mousy didn’t describe the girl, Mac thought. She was about fourteen and timid, but would have a pleasing face, if she weren’t so skittish. She’d grow into her looks. But contrary to what Isaac said, she didn’t seem to welcome the Johnsons.

A gray-haired man with a beard entered the dining room. His suspenders held up trousers over a large paunch. “Dinner’s over. What else you want?” he asked.

“Same as last time, Peterson,” Isaac said. “As I recall, you had a taste for it yourself.”

Peterson shook his head, beard quivering. “Don’t want no trouble.”

“No trouble for us,” Isaac said with a smirk.

Jenny returned with a rag. She wiped the table, but kept as far away from the men as she could.

Mac toyed with his hat. He should be on his way, but it felt wrong to leave the girl with the Johnsons. “May I have a pint of ale also?” he asked.

Jenny went to get it. The older Johnson patted her buttock as she passed. She shied away. Isaac followed her and put an arm around her shoulders while she poured Mac’s ale. Peterson tugged on his suspenders and left the room.

Mac stood. “The lady is trying to serve my drink.” He wanted to say more, but he didn’t know the relationship between Jenny and the men.

“You’ll get it, mister.” Isaac let Jenny pass, and she handed Mac the mug of frothing ale.

Mac sipped his pint until it was gone, then paid for his meal. The two Johnson men whispered between themselves. One chortled.

Jenny flinched at the rude laughter as she took Mac’s money. She gave him a quick glance. “Are you sure I can’t get you another pint?”

“No, thank you.” Mac hesitated, uncomfortable leaving her alone with the men, but not wanting any part of a problem he didn’t understand. He tipped his hat at her. “I have a long ride ahead.”

He stepped outside and took a deep breath of the early spring air. A fine day for riding.

A shout and a scream behind him interrupted his thoughts. He ran back into the tavern. Another scream sounded from the dining room, and he raced toward it.

Jacob Johnson had Jenny crushed against his chest. Her sleeve was ripped. Peterson, the heavy man, pulled at Jacob’s arm. Isaac had his pistol drawn and yelled, “Let my boy be!”

“Leave the girl alone!” Mac shouted.

Isaac pointed his gun at Mac. “You keep out of this, mister.”

Mac drew his own pistol and aimed. Two shots reverberated. A bullet slammed into the wall next to Mac’s head. Isaac fell to the floor.

Mac froze. He’d shot the man.

Jacob pushed Jenny away and dropped beside his father. “You killed my pa!” Jacob pulled his gun and fired. A splinter flew from behind Mac.

Before Mac could respond, another shot rang out from across the room. Jacob fell writhing on the floor, holding his arm and moaning.

Mac turned. Jenny cringed behind the bar with a rifle in her hands. Peterson stood silently beside her.

Mac ran to the Johnsons and kicked their guns away. Isaac’s eyes were open, staring but unseeing. Dead. Mac’s stomach lurched.

Jacob thrashed and sobbed, blood seeping from his left arm. Alive. At least the girl wouldn’t have a death on her conscience, Mac thought. And her shot had saved his life.

Peterson grunted as he knelt heavily beside Jacob. He pressed the boy’s wound with a handkerchief.

“You killed my pa, you bastard,” Jacob said to Mac through chattering teeth. His body shook. “You’ll pay.”

“Is there a doctor in town?” Mac asked.

Peterson ran a hand through his gray hair. “Girl, go get Doc Morgan.”

“He’s in Jonesboro,” Jenny replied. “Mrs. Whittaker’s confinement.”

“Then get some towels to stop this bleeding,” Peterson said. “And fetch the blacksmith to cauterize the wound.”

Jenny brought towels and dropped them at Peterson’s feet. “I’m not doing anything more.” Her voice quavered. “You know what he was going to do.”

“Shouldn’t someone call the sheriff?” Mac asked. “I killed one man. You shot another, and I’ll be damned if I see him dead, too.”

Peterson glanced at Mac. “You just killed the sheriff. This boy bleeding here is the deputy. I reckon we’ll need the federal marshal. Could be days before he gets here.”

Mac sank into a chair. “Hell,” he said. “Why did the sheriff pull his gun on me?”

Peterson shrugged, and Jenny stared at the floor.

“What’s your role here?” Mac asked Peterson.

“I’m Bart Peterson. It’s my tavern. You’d best leave. You shot in self-defense. I’ll tell the marshal.” Peterson looked at Jenny. “You’ll say the same, won’t you?”

She nodded.

“Go,” Peterson said.

Mac turned for the door, eager to leave the gruesome scene behind him, but wanting to do the right thing. In the doorway, he looked back at Jenny and the men. Jacob was still—he must have passed out. Peterson continued to stanch the wound. “The marshal won’t come after me?” Mac asked.

Peterson shook his head without looking up.

Mac hurried to Valiente and unhitched the horse. His hands shook. He’d never killed a man before. He leaned his head against the stallion’s neck. The horse’s warm flesh comforted him.

As Mac mounted Valiente, Jenny ran out of the tavern. “Wait!” She hesitated, then said, “Take me with you.”

Mac stared at her.

Jenny grabbed the back of the saddle, raising her other hand to Mac. He took it without thinking. She swung up behind him. “Ride!” she urged.