Cleve rode on. Lawyer he might be, but with that nose he had without doubt seen the inside of many a saloon. Cleve rode to the Noland House and was fortunate enough to find an empty bed, although it was still warm from the body of the last man, who was undoubtedly now preparing to start west with a wagon train. Four trains were leaving that morning.
At breakfast the following morning in Noland’s dining room he heard that the Morgan train had gone. The first day they would scarcely move more than eight to ten miles, just enough to break in the teams and get them used to the work. They might even stop short of that, for it was customary to make the first day or two easy, until the stock became broken to the trail. Twice during the morning men came trying to buy Cleve’s horse, but he refused to sell. Later, after he had sat around the hotel listening and keeping his eyes open for a small game which failed to materialize, he went out and laid in some modest supplies. He bought a coffee pot, some pemmican, and, from an old Missourian, some cold flour.
He had never heard of cold flour, but the Missourian merely chuckled. “Lots of folks hain’t heard of it,” he said. “Mexicans, they use it. You just take some corn and grind her up good after it’s parched. Then you add a mite of sugar and cinnamon. Man can live a month on a half-bushel of it, and tasty, too. A feller just mixes a bit of it into water and drinks it down.” He bought a gutta-percha poncho, against possible rainstorms, a couple of blankets, and a ground sheet. He added a canteen, and a hundred cartridges for his pistol.
The provision stores were crowded with men buying, planning, asking advice of the storekeepers and of others—of anyone, in fact, who had time to listen. “Butter?” Cleve overheard a man saying. “Why, butter’s no problem at all. Boil it … boil it well, and skim it off until it’s clear like oil, then you put it in tin canisters and solder it up. Even down Texas way where she gets mighty hot, that butter will keep.
“Vegetables? Sure, you can have them too. You get them desiccated vegetables like the army uses. They’re pressed down and heated into cakes as solid as a rock. A chunk of it no bigger than a woman’s fist will make a pot for four, five men. I et ‘em with the army out Utah way when we went out to keep an eye on Brigham an’ his Saints. Tasty, that’s what they are, an’ they stick to your ribs.”
He found a supply of his cigars at Noland’s and laid in a stock. It was the one luxury he was to permit himself. His was a small outfit, but he had little money, and wanted to keep a few dollars for a stake in case somebody started a game on the way west.
His horse had been ridden but little, and no great distance for some time, and would need breaking in to the trail. He mounted up and started west. He had no plans to catch up to the wagons for a while. He wanted to be far enough away from the settlements so it would be impractical for Roger Morgan to order him to return.
Roger Morgan had a reputation. He was known as a fine wagonmaster, one of the few who organized such trains, for the usual procedure was to elect a captain from among the pioneers themselves, and to depose him if he failed to lead and command as he should. Morgan had been over the trail several times, and functioned both as a guide and as a wagonmaster. He was known as a hard man, who permitted no nonsense on his trains and was prepared to handle any difficulties that arose.
There were scattered settlements and ranch houses for some distance west of both Independence and Leavenworth, and they were pleased to welcome a visitor. People were hungry for news of the world, and they wanted to know what was happening in the outfitting towns like Independence.
An easy talker, polite but never forward, Cleve van Valen found a ready audience for his accounts of what was happening in St. Louis and Cincinnati, and in Independence itself. He took his time, often riding only a few miles a day, stopping on the way at ranches to share the home cooking, and with it all, he asked questions.
He was too wise in the ways of gambling not to realize his handicap in going into an area where he must play the other fellow’s game, something no gambler believed in doing. During long sessions over card tables and around frontier gambling houses and on the river boats he had heard much talk of Indian fighting, of life on the plains and in the mountains, and the result was that he understood what he was facing. Now he made further inquiries from the settlers along the frontier. He wanted to fit in when he caught up with the wagons, to prove valuable to Lilith Prescott and the wagon train. A Cherokee he met west of Leavenworth was riding to join a party of hunters, and Cleve rode along with him. The Cherokee, who had once owned a plantation and slaves in Georgia before being forced to move west during the Indian removal, explained to him about the Kiowa, the Arapahoe, and the Cheyenne Indians he would meet further west. These, in contrast to the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, were wild Indians, giving to raiding, horse-thieving, and scalp-hunting.
“They will stampede your stock if they can,” the Cherokee explained, “driving it off to round up later. And any man caught out away from the train will be killed—be sure of that.”
After three days’ riding together, they parted on the bank of a small stream, and the Cherokee pointed out the wagon road west. Turning his mount, Cleve van Valen rode away. He crossed the stream, emerged from the brush on the far side, and started his horse up the long grassy slope. The air was very clear … no clouds were in the sky. It was pleasant, not too warm, and his horse walked easily through the tall grass. On top of the bill, with the wagon road below him and some distance off, Cleve drew up. As far as the eye could see, there rolled the endless grass. Far off, two dark objects grazing upon the grass would be buffalo. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs, and it was like drinking a long draught of cold, clear water. Nothing moved out there, nothing but the wind and the low grass that bent before it. Yes … it was a man’s country.
His gelding pricked its ears at the distance, stamping an impatient foot at the delay.
All through the day he rode across the miles of grass, and when he camped that night it was in the willows near a stream. At daybreak he was up, and for the first time he made coffee and mixed a little cold flour with water and drank it. Then he started on.
The wagons were drawn up for a “nooning” near a river when he came near to them. They were not far beyond Vermilion Creek and were headed for a camp on the upper crossing of the Big Blue.
Almost the first wagon he saw was that belonging to Agatha Clegg and Lilith Prescott. The big man sitting his mount alongside their fire could be none other than Roger Morgan, who turned his head to look as Cleve cantered up. Cleve removed his hat with a graceful sweep. “Ladies,” he began, “I—“ “I thought,” Lilith interrupted dryly, “that we had seen the last of you.” “Frankly, I was worried. I couldn’t bear to think of you making the trip alone and without help. If anything had happened to you I could never have forgiven myself.”
“You rode a hundred miles alone?” Morgan asked. “I’ll take your word for the distance. I was so filled with anticipation that I scarcely noticed.”
“You can anticipate another hundred on your way back. We’ll have no gamblers on this train. When a wagon breaks down I want men who can fix it, not bet on how long it’ll take.”
“You mean you’d turn a man adrift? In Indian country?” “We ain’t into Indian country yet, and you got here by yourself, so I guess you can get back.”
Lilith started to protest, but Aggie was already speaking. “Mr. Morgan, I talked to this man back at Independence. I told him if he got his affairs straightened out and caught up with us that we’d take him on. We’re likely to need a man before this trip is over.”
“I’m a good man on a horse, captain, and a dead shot,” Cleve said.