Danny: A Journey on the Oregon Trail

By R. S. Heller

In the spring of 1867, the country is focused on rebuilding after the Civil War. As westward emigration begins once again, two thousand miles of desolation and dust, drenching rains and blazing sun, and life and death await those brave enough to tackle the Oregon Trail.

Ian OFallon, a solitary scout with a mysterious past, arrives in St. Louis on the request of his boss, Captain Tom Williams, to investigate an Irish horse breeder who wants to join his wagon train to Oregon. But everything changes when he meets the breederthe beautiful widow, Danny Seabhac, who has a dream of starting a horse farm in Oregon. As the two become acquainted, Ian begins to fall in love with her. But there is one problem: Danny has her own secreta past that may have more to do with Ian than he realizes.

Danny is a story of determination and perseverance, life and death, and beginnings and endings as a wagon train embarks on a dangerous journey on the Oregon Trail with two passengers about to realize their true destinies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491717554

R. S. Heller

R. S. Heller is a seasoned traveler who has lived in Spain and Germany. She has two daughters and two grandchildren. Ms. Heller and her husband of thirty years currently reside in a suburb of Denver, Colorado, where she is busy researching Colorado history in preparation for subsequent novels.

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Copyright © 2014 R. S. Heller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1754-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1756-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1755-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922208

iUniverse rev. date: 01/31/2014

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

Thank you to Chip, Monique, and Chuck for their encouragement and support throughout the entire process of writing and publishing this book.

Author’s notes: ‘Sea’ is ‘yes’ in the Irish, and is pronounced sha.

The Oregon Trail is real. Landmarks mentioned along the trail are real and there are several historical facts in this story. The characters in this book are purely fictitious. Similarities to real people, living or dead, are coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

Tom Williams pushed the chair back from his cluttered desk, stood up, and took a long look at the marked up map on the wall. It showed the Oregon Trail and all its landmarks and cut-offs, all 2,000 miles of prairie, dust, rivers, and mountains.

During the recent war between the states, Tom lost men in battle, from fevers, sickness, and disease. That was expected. On the westward trail, he knew he would lose women and children as well. That too was expected. During his years with Amos Anderson’s wagon trains to California he’d seen great losses, including whole families. Still, any death did not sit well with him, especially since so many were avoidable. As Tom prepared for this year’s trip, he was looking closely at every detail, every action that could affect the trip. Now he had a problem.

He glimpsed again at the letter in his hand, shook his head, and looked out the only window in the room. It was on the north side of a simple, two-story, clapboard farmhouse his parents owned - it didn’t make sense for him to own a place since he was gone most of the year. In the distance he could see the broad, shimmering, and treacherous Missouri River. Straight back from the house he could see his crew loitering around one of the corrals. Tom smiled knowing Ian had to be at the center of it. He grabbed his hat and headed out of his small office, still holding the letter.

He walked out the back door to the hard dirt lane that led to the barn. He gazed at the gently rolling hills, some plowed and ready for seeding, others waiting to be turned over. He remembered helping his father clear, plow, and plant those hills. For a brief moment, he wished he’d chosen to stay a farmer. But then he never would have met Sarah.

The barn was large, red, and had a six-sided cupola on the roof. This allowed air and light into the second story where they stored hay, straw, and feed. The first story had large wooden doors on railings so they could be slid open and shut when moving the dairy cows or horses. There were two large fenced corrals, one attached to each side of the barn. Tom’s crew was standing around one of these watching his scout, Ian O’Fallon, work a horse.

When you’re done showing off Ian, I need you to talk to you, Tom called to his friend. I have a task to keep you busy for a few days.

Tom and Ian met when Tom was stationed out west and Ian was scouting for the Army. They also fought together in the recent war. When Tom started his own wagon train, Ian was right there with him, scouting the trail ahead. But, for all their years together, much of Ian’s past was still a mystery to Tom.

Ian continued working with the horse, his own roan. Beau was tossing his head and fidgeting, something Tom had never seen him do before.

Shouldn’t you all being doing something else? Tom asked, as he leaned against the fence that surrounded the corral.

Beau’s giving Ian some grief, one of the men said. We all wanted to watch. We think he’s lost his magic touch.

Tom looked at Ian as he stood in front of the horse, talking slowly to the restless animal. Beau stood a good sixteen hands at the withers (that’s close to five and a half feet) and Ian was a good head and shoulders above that. Their eyes could meet when Beau brought his head up, but he wouldn’t stand still today. Ian had been riding Beau as long as Tom had known him, which was over eight years, but today Tom saw concern in Ian’s face. That too was something he’d never seen before.

He needs a good running, Ian said, his voice mellow with a distinct Irish brogue. Éasca, he said softly to Beau as he reached for some rope. He tied both ends to Beau’s halter and threw the rest over the withers. He turned and looked at Tom. Why do you want to talk to me?

I have a scouting job for you.

I’ll come in when I get back. He leapt onto Beau’s bare back and walked him over to the gate where one of the hands opened it to let them out. Ian reached over to grab his low crowned, flat brimmed hat off one of the posts. He put it on, letting his long, wavy brown hair, hang loose.

Don’t you want a saddle and bridle with Beau acting up like this? Tom asked with concern.

No. I prefer riding bareback and Beau never did need a bridle, Ian replied, as he coaxed Beau into a looping canter.

Watch out for mole holes! Tom yelled. Pop said he’s seen quite a few this spring, he added, as Ian and Beau cantered off and the rest of the men headed off to their chores.

About an hour later Ian and Beau came cantering back. Tom saw them across the field and headed towards the barn. Suddenly, Beau and Ian went down.

Ian! Tom yelled, as he and the other men ran towards the downed rider and horse.

When Tom arrived, Ian was just getting to get to his feet, pain obvious in his face as he cradled his right arm. Beau didn’t move. Ian walked over to Beau and knelt by the sweaty, dead horse.

Ian, what happened? Tom asked.

Beau just wanted one last good run, he said, his voice tight.

And you? Tom queried.

Broke my arm. He died mid-stride. I didn’t have time to react.

Damn shame. I know how much Beau meant to you, Tom said, as he looked at the horse. We need to get you inside and have a look at that arm.

Some of the other men arrived by then. They removed their hats in reverence to Beau.

Otto, Tom called to one of his men, Help me get Ian up. Then you and the others take good care of Beau. And someone, find Doc and send him up to the house.

The two men helped Ian to his feet and Tom walked Ian toward the house.

Mrs. Williams looked out the kitchen window when she heard Tom yell. As Tom and Ian headed toward the house, she noticed Ian cradling his arm. She put a kettle on to boil and waited for them at the kitchen door.

Her son was in his mid-thirties with light brown hair and blue eyes. Tall and lean, he looked every bit the English gentleman, like her father. His friend Ian was something else.

Ian was a bit older and taller than Tom, standing over six feet with a well-toned, agile build. His face could be hard and unwavering and his blue eyes unflinching. Yet, when he smiled, it was a face even she fell in love with. He wore his dark hair long, either braided or tied at the nape of his neck. Today his hair was hanging loose and looking wild. His clothing was more like the Indians out west, including his moccasin covered feet. All of this, and his Irish brogue, blended well into the mystique of the solitary man who rarely spoke of his past. Still, she loved him like a son and was very concerned as she opened the door to let the two men into the kitchen.

Ian, what have you done? she asked.

Think I broke my arm, he replied. I let Beau have his head today and he ran until his heart gave out and I went over his head.

Mrs. Williams led Ian to a chair and let him sit down, resting his arm on the table.

A knock at the door announced Doc’s arrival. Tom let him in. Doc was one of his father’s farmhands, good at setting bones and stitching up cuts.

Doc pulled on his white whiskers, looked at Ian, and grunted. Heard you took a tumble off your horse young feller.

Sea, Ian replied.

Lemme take a look at it. Need to get your shirt off first, he said, walking around to where Ian was sitting. Mrs. Williams and Doc helped Ian slide his good arm out of the sleeve of his tunic, then over his head, and carefully pulled it off his injured arm, exposing swelling and growing discoloration.

Yep, damn good job of breakin’ it. Gonna hurt some when I set it. You wanna a drink to help with the pain?

No, replied Ian.

Mrs. Williams was surprised he turned down the drink as she looked at his arm. There was a lump in his forearm where the bone had broken. Though it hadn’t broken through the skin, she knew it was going to hurt when Doc set it.

Are you sure you don’t want a drink? she asked. Ian just shook his head.

Okay, Doc said. Tom, you hold him tight and I’ll get it set. Mrs. Williams, can you get me some boards and cloth, please?

Mrs. Williams went to the back door and opened it for one of Tom’s men, who’d just walked up. George brought them up, she said, as she let him in.

The kettle was whistling and she poured the boiling water into a teapot, allowing the tea to steep. She always had Irish tea for Ian, but once the tea was steeped she would add something more she knew Ian would need.

As she waited for the tea to brew, she turned to watch Doc set the arm. She looked at Ian sitting very still and resting his broken arm on the table. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then began to chant.

What you singin’ there? Doc asked.

A Lakota chant.

Lakota? Where’d you learn it?

Ian grimaced, then answered, From a Lakota medicine man I used to know.

Was that your friend Red Hawk? Tom asked.

Ian simply nodded and began to chant again.

Mrs. Williams watched as Tom put his arm around Ian’s shoulders and his knee in the back of Ian’s chair, as a brace. Ian kept chanting as Doc ran his hands up and down Ian’s arm. Mrs. Williams closed her eyes in anticipation of Doc’s actions.

Ian didn’t yell when Doc yanked his arm and the bones snapped into place. He did say, damn, through clenched teeth. Excuse me Mrs. Williams, he added.

It’s alright Ian, she replied. I’ve heard worse things said for less cause. The tea was ready. She poured it, and the additive, into a cup and placed it on the table in front of him. Here now, have a good cup of tea.

Ian sipped the tea and made a face, but smiled at her, then winced as Doc felt his arm again.

It’ll be a few weeks ’fore you can use it agin, Doc said as he wrapped and splinted the arm. Did a good job of bustin’ it up but everythin’ feels likes it’s back in place.

Thanks, Doc, Ian said, as he took a deep breath and another sip of the spiked tea.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Williams could see the tea was taking affect as Ian looked at her son and asked, What about this scouting trip?

I want you to go to St. Louis, Tom replied.

What’s in St. Louis?

An Irish horse breeder who wants to join the train. I want you to go to St. Louis and check him out.

Well now, Ian said, raising his eyebrows, a mischievous tone creeping into his words. Time in St. Louis with a fellow countryman. His tone was more serious when he asked, What’s the problem?

Tom handed him the letter. It’s from a man called Sea-b-hac, he said.

Ian laughed, It’s pronounced sháouk and means ‘hawk.’ It’s not a common name.

Mrs. Williams stood behind Ian and read the letter over his shoulder. It was from D. C. Seabhac, Irish Horse Breeder, and was written on fine stationary with meticulous penmanship. That alone spoke of status and money.

In the letter, Seabhac said he would arrive in St. Louis later this week, to conclude a few business details. He would then bring his horses and crew up to St. Joseph by the end of the first week of April with the understanding the wagon train would leave the last week.

Seabhac was bringing a stallion, ten brood mares and two dozen other horses. His crew would consist of eight or nine men, his foreman and partner, and himself. He went on to say fifty head of cattle would be delivered to the Williams’ farm after he arrived.

Seabhac had already procured wagons and teams. He had the necessary supplies for the first leg of the journey and claimed to have pre-positioned supplies along the standard route to Oregon.

Ian finished reading the letter and sipped his cup of tea, which Mrs. Williams refilled with more additive than tea.

Hmm, said Ian.

Can a crew of ten handle that many horses and cattle? Tom asked.

Sea, Ian replied. Horses are very social creatures and will follow the stallion. Cattle aren’t the smartest of animals but we’ll have plenty of others to herd them. I’ll ask him for more details when I meet him but I need to be packing my bag so I can be on my way in the morning.

Thanks, Ian. I knew this would interest you.

Mrs. Williams smiled as Ian stood up and swayed. Her son laughed as he stood up and steadied his friend.

For now you need to go lie down and rest, Tom said.

I think your mother has made sure of that with the Irish whiskey she’s been putting in my tea, he said, winking and smiling at her. I still want to get to St. Louis before Seabhac. I need to find a new trail horse. I let Beau have his head today. I think he knew it was his last run. Damn shame. Begging your pardon again, Mrs. Williams.

Mrs. Williams just smiled. Come along, Ian. You need to rest.

Sarah, Tom’s petite wife, walked into the kitchen. So you’re sending my lover away? she said, in a teasing tone.

Mrs. Williams laughed as Sarah sweetly batted her deep blue eyes at Ian. She’d seen Sarah tease Ian many times and Ian always indulged her. This time was no different, except Ian was now a bit intoxicated.

Oh, Sarah, me darling, Ian said, as his Irish brogue thickened, how could I ever be leaving you? He moved to put his arm around Sarah and swayed again.

Come on, Ian, Mrs. Williams said. The front room is waiting for you.

She put an arm around Ian’s waist and helped him walk to the front bedroom. She pulled the blinds, shut the door, and left Ian to settle himself on the bed and sleep.

The next morning Mrs. Williams washed and braided Ian’s hair, and Tom drove him into town to catch the train.

What are you going to do when you get to St. Louis? Tom asked.

I’ll be heading for the docks. I’ll find out everything I need to know there, he said.

Ian boarded the train and found a seat. He stretched out, pushed his hat over his eyes, and once the train started rolling, he let the rhythmic clacking of the wheels lull him to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

In the spring of 1867, the country was still rebuilding after the War Between the States. The Reconstruction Act had passed, Nebraska had been admitted into the Union, and westward emigration was in full swing again. People were looking to California and Oregon with the hope of finding a better or freer life and many began their trek in St. Louis, Missouri.

St. Louis, where Louis and Clark began their western expedition in 1804, was a growing river town, the gateway to the west, and a major commercial port on the Mississippi River. The population had been growing steadily, but now, with the War Between the States over, and the renewed push westward, the population had exploded to well over 200,000.

When Ian arrived in St. Louis, he grabbed his bag, got off the train, and headed for the riverfront where there was always a layer of smoke down by the docks. Boats pulled in to load and unload. As soon as they were ready to move, the whistles blew, their tall stacks belched out smoke and steam, and a layer of black smoke hung over the water.

With each belch of steam, paddlewheels splashed into the water, churning up the soft river bottom, as the boats maneuvered away from the docks and out into the muddy waters. Some boats headed south towards New Orleans and others to the Ohio River and the east. Both routes took people to a more civilized and genteel world.

Then, there were the boats that navigated the treacherous Missouri, carrying mostly supplies to points north and west, even up into the Dakotas. Ian knew greenhorns would eventually be aboard some of those Missouri boats, heading to St. Joseph to join Tom’s wagon train to Oregon.

Ian went to the hotel closest to the docks, assuming Seabhac would be staying there. After convincing the clerk at the front desk he was an old friend of Seabhac’s, Ian found out he was right. Seabhac had reserved several rooms and would be arriving on Friday. So Ian also booked a room.

Through other conversations that day, Ian discovered Seabhac had advertised for hired hands to help with the trip. He found a paper with the advertisement. It read:

Horse wranglers, wagon drivers needed for trip to Oregon – no married men or drunks. No use of spurs or whips. Come to the St. Louis riverfront livestock pens on Friday, the 8th of March between noon and 4 for an interview. Ask for Mrs. Danny Seabhac.

Mrs. Seabhac, now that could mean trouble. Few men would work for a woman, especially a widowed woman. Ian pictured a rich, pampered matron, dressed in taffeta with a starched collar, her patient foreman at her side.

Ian assumed the interviews were the ‘business’ Seabhac needed to finish up. He felt she was taking a big risk waiting ’til the last minute to hire hands. Still, it would be interesting to watch events unfold. He would need to find a good spot to observe the proceedings, without being obvious. He even considered showing up for an interview himself, just to see what questions she asked and how she would determine whom to hire.

He read the advertisement again. Aside from being a woman, Seabhac had automatically removed most men from even considering the job, due to the formality and restrictions. Asking a cowpoke not to wear spurs was unheard of. Ian was often ridiculed for not wearing them, but then, he wasn’t a cowpoke. Still, the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became.

He folded the paper and tucked it in his sling. Friday was still a day away and he hoped to find out more about Seabhac before then.

Thursday morning dawned bright and clear. Ian headed out to look at horses near the docks. He found it very disappointing; the head wrangler wasn’t very encouraging. The horse trade was still recovering from the war. The available stock was made up of worn out war horses, or old nags no longer fit for any work.

Ian spent the afternoon checking out stock, in and around St. Louis. He found a couple of candidates, and a yearling or two that might work. He knew more horses would arrive on Friday, so he decided to wait until then to make any decisions. Besides, it would give him a good excuse to hang around the pens where Seabhac would be conducting her interviews.

In the evening, Ian sat around and listened to conversations in the dining room and lobby of the hotel. He was well educated, but could easily fall into a less articulated speech pattern if it helped him discover any new information. There was nothing more to learn that day, and, with his arm throbbing, Ian headed up to his room.

Friday morning, Ian went down to the dining room for breakfast. Once seated at a table, he smiled sweetly at the waitress and complimented her. She blushed as she took his order and was still blushing when she brought him a pot of tea. He really could be very charming when he wanted to be.

As he waited for his meal, he noticed a stir in the lobby caused by a woman. It was not a disruptive stir but one of curiosity. She carried herself with unabashed confidence and the men in the lobby gave way to her, not out of courtesy given to a gentlewoman, but out of awe, respect, and maybe even fear.

Ian always looked at a person’s footwear because what they wore on their feet often told him more than what they wore on their body. This woman was wearing new leather moccasins with quillwork on the toe.

It was the quillwork he found more interesting than the fact she was a self-confident woman. He hadn’t seen anyone wearing that footwear since he’d left the western mountains years ago, and the quillwork in her moccasins was similar to the quillwork in his own. He’d been very careful with the quillwork on his moccasins and had already sewn it on to several new pairs. He was intrigued now, and took another look at her.

A quick glance showed similar quillwork on the hatband of her wide-brimmed, low, round-crowned hat. There was the feather of a red-tailed hawk stuck in the band. When she removed her hat, it revealed a long braid of light brown hair. He noted she was wearing a long duster over men’s pants and a button-up shirt. She also wore a deerskin vest, laced up to provide support. She had a fine feminine figure, but there was no doubting her character. Her face was stern, authority hung on her like a cloak, and it was obvious she was not a woman to be crossed.

But, Ian had his agenda for the day and could not let an interesting character distract him. Besides, she was staying at the hotel, so he’d probably run into her later. He smiled, envisioning a meeting between this Western wildflower, fresh off some trail, and the matronly Mrs. Danny Seabhac, from County Galway, Ireland.

His breakfast arrived. He smiled at the waitress when he noticed she’d cut his food for him. He thanked her and turned all his attention to eating, which took extra effort with only one hand.

When he finished eating, Ian headed down to the pens, asking around about any new horses that arrived. He was told a herd arrived about an hour ago, but the horses were not for sale. With a little more probing, Ian learned they belonged to Seabhac and where they were being kept. He wandered off in that general direction, still keeping an eye out for a good trail horse.

As he got close to Seabhac’s pens, he was amazed by the quality of horses. One pen held several Arabians and a dappled gray of a breed Ian didn’t know. The pen on the right had: pintos, appaloosas, duns, sorrels, a strawberry roan, and a big chestnut bay, all typical working horses. The horses in both pens were all well breed, and full of life and spirit. At least he was confident Seabhac had a good eye for horses.

Ian looked at the Arabians again. They were all mares and three of them were due to foal soon.

The dappled grey was a stallion with a strong chest, curved neck, and thick flowing mane and tail. It was a magnificent animal, very royal in its carriage. Ian assumed he and the mares were the breeding stock.

Ian saw a Hispanic man tending the horses and said to him, These are fine looking horses.

Gracias señor, but they are not for sale, the Hispanic man replied. Ian could tell by his accent that the man was from Spain.

Sea, I know, Ian said, as he walked up to the rail surrounding the breeding stock. He stood next to the Hispanic man. They’re still fine looking horses.

The stallion came over to Ian. His ears were forward and Ian knew the horse was looking him over as it whickered and nodded his head up and down.

Zeus likes you, came the gentle voice of an Irish woman.

Sea, Ian said, as he reached out and ran his hand down the stallion’s head. I know.

He turned, expecting to see the matronly Mrs. Seabhac. Instead, he found the Western wildflower from the hotel standing behind to him. The duster was gone, but the hat was back in place, and, at this close range, he could see her hazel green eyes. She was a bit taller than most women and her head reached his chin.

Ma’am, he said, pushing back his hat, I was just admiring your horses. Then, extending his hand, he added, My name is Ian O’Fallon.

Ian O’Fallon, she said slowly, almost making a statement of his name, while taking a firm grip of his hand. She paused and looked carefully at his face. My name is Danny Seabhac, she finally said. And this is my head man and partner, Manolo, she added, falling into a business attitude. You’d be the scout for Captain Williams’ wagon train? Her Irish brogue was strong and when Ian nodded, she added, I assume he sent you here to check on me to be sure I wasn’t going to be any trouble.

Well, Ian said, trying to gather his thoughts. She really was not what he expected and, at this distance, he found her to be an attractive woman. We were both surprised by the amount of detail you’ve taken in preparation for this trip. Captain Williams wanted to be sure you knew what you were doing and not some dandy with a wild dream and no sense.

Ian realized he was still holding her hand, even though both had relaxed their grip, and he let go.

I apologize if that seems rude, he continued, but Captain Williams has to worry about anything that might cause a problem on the trail west. Your plans are very involved and have the potential of doing just that.

"I hope my being a