Chapter 13: Westward Bound

(June 1865, New York City)

The next three days passed in a blur of preparation that made army supply runs look leisurely.

William Francom turned out to be methodical to the point of obsession—he had lists for his lists, each item written in careful script and checked off as we acquired it. Joseph was the opposite, all instinct and improvisation, bartering with shopkeepers in three languages and somehow always getting more than we paid for.

Watching them work together was like watching two halves of the same brain finally connected. William would plan, Joseph would execute. William would worry, Joseph would laugh. Between them, they managed to outfit an expedition that had a chance of actually succeeding.

We started with horses—the foundation of everything else. Joseph knew a dealer in Brooklyn who owed him a favor from the ship crossing, and we spent a full morning looking over stock in a livery that smelled of hay and manure and possibility.

"That one," I said, pointing to a bay gelding in the back corner. He was watching us with intelligent eyes, ears forward, not nervous but alert. Good chest, strong legs, the kind of horse that could carry you all day and still have something left when trouble came.

The dealer—a gap-toothed Irishman named Flannery—nodded approval. "Good eye, lad. That's Rusty. Sound as a dollar, steady temperament. Won't spook at gunfire or Indians."

"You test that?" Tiny asked, skeptical.

"Well, no. But I got a feeling about him." Flannery grinned. "Tell you what—take him for a ride, see how he suits."

I did. Rusty moved smooth, responded to leg pressure, stopped when asked and went when told. Not fancy, but reliable. That was worth more than speed or looks on a long journey.

Tiny chose a gray mare called Smoke—bigger boned, slower, but with the steady calm he needed for his size. William and Joseph took matching chestnuts that Flannery swore were brothers, though I doubted it. For pack animals we got two mules that looked mean but worked willing.

"That's six horses and two mules," William said, checking his list. "Saddles, bridles, pack frames..."

We spent the afternoon in a tack shop that had outfitted half the westward migrations of the last decade. The owner, an old German whose hands were gnarled from fifty years of leatherwork, sized us up quick.

"You boys heading to California?" he asked.

"Utah," Joseph said.

The old man nodded. "Good country, Utah. Mormons know how to build. You'll want the reinforced saddles—regular ones won't last past Iowa." He pulled down rigs that looked like they could survive a war. "And get yourself good rain gear. Summer storms on the prairie, they'll drown you right in the saddle if you're not prepared."

We followed his advice. Bought oilcloth ponchos, extra cinches, saddlebags that could hold a week's supplies. Bought rope and hobbles and picket pins. Bought everything the old German suggested and a few things he didn't.

By the second day my head was spinning with details. Beans and bacon, coffee and cornmeal, salt and sugar and flour. Cooking pots and eating tins, canteens and water bags. Blankets and ground cloths, tent canvas and poles. Ammunition for the rifles we'd bought—used Springfields that had seen the war but still shot straight. Extra powder and ball, cleaning rods, patch cloth.

"Medicine," William said, consulting his list. "We need a proper kit."

That took us to an apothecary run by a thin man with spectacles who looked like he'd never been outside a day in his life. But he knew his business.

"Laudanum for pain," he said, lining up brown bottles on the counter. "Quinine for fever. Carbolic acid for wounds—better than whiskey for preventing infection, though the whiskey helps too." He gave a thin smile. "Castor oil for digestive troubles. Ipecac for poisoning. Bandages, needles, thread for stitching. And this—" He held up a small tin. "Burn ointment. You'll thank me when someone backs into a campfire."

We bought it all, packed it careful in a wooden box with straw padding.

The third day we focused on weapons. The rifles were good for distance, but we needed more.

"Revolvers," I said. "Two each. And knives—good ones, not the cheap pig-stickers they sell to greenhorns."

We found what we needed in a gun shop near the docks, run by a one-armed veteran who'd lost his limb at Antietam. He didn't ask which side we'd fought for, just sold us Colt Navies with holsters and extra cylinders.

"You know how to use these?" he asked William and Joseph.

"We're learning," William said.

The veteran looked at me. "You better teach them, and teach them right. A man who don't know his weapon is more dangerous to himself than any enemy."

"I will," I promised.

We spent the afternoon in a vacant lot past the dockyards, shooting at bottles lined up on a fence. William was careful and accurate, taking his time with each shot. Joseph rushed and missed more than he hit.

"Slow down," I told him. "Breathe. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it. The gun should surprise you when it fires."

"Surprise me?" He looked dubious. "I'm the one shooting it."

"Trust me."

By sunset he was hitting one in three, which was better than nothing. We'd have months on the trail to improve.

The night before we left, the four of us sat in the boarding house parlor going over the route one final time. William had the map spread across the table, our path marked in careful pencil.

"New York to Philadelphia," he said. "Sixty miles, two days easy riding. We follow the post road, stay at coaching inns where we can."

I nodded. Pennsylvania was settled country, safe enough. No Indians, few outlaws, plenty of places to resupply if we'd forgotten anything.

"Philadelphia to Pittsburgh," Joseph continued. "Two hundred miles through the mountains. Rougher terrain but still civilization. Maybe a week."

"The Alleghenies won't be easy," I warned. "Roads are steep, horses'll tire fast. We'll need to pace ourselves."

"Noted." William made a mark on his list. "Pittsburgh to Columbus, Ohio—another hundred fifty miles. Then Columbus to Indianapolis, Springfield, Iowa City..." He traced the route with his finger. "If we average twenty-five miles a day, we should reach Winter Quarters by mid-August."

"That's optimistic," Tiny rumbled. "Weather, horse trouble, delays you can't predict—count on thirty miles a day at best, and that's if nothing goes wrong."

"When we hit the prairie," I added, "things change. No more inns, no more towns every twenty miles. We'll be camping rough, living off what we carry. Need to be ready for that."

William looked up from the map. "Are we ready?"

I thought about it. We had good horses, good gear, enough supplies for the first leg. We had two men who'd been soldiers and two who were learning fast. We had gold to smooth over problems and rifles to handle trouble.

"As ready as we'll ever be," I said. "Rest is up to the trail and the Lord."

"Then I suggest we get some sleep," Joseph said, standing and stretching. "Dawn comes early for westward travelers."

But I couldn't sleep. Lay on my cot staring at the ceiling, listening to Tiny's snores and the city sounds beyond the window—wagons rattling past, dogs barking, somewhere a woman singing. Tomorrow I'd leave all this behind. Leave the East, leave civilization, leave everything familiar.

Head in exactly the wrong direction from home.

I pulled out Emma's letter one more time, read it by moonlight coming through the window. Wait for me, I'd written back. I am coming home.

Four months, I'd promised myself. Four months and I'd have the money. Four months and I could go back with my head high.

I tucked the letter away, touched Samuel's pouch. Felt the outline of Pa's watch, the photograph, the pressed lavender.

I'm sorry, I told him again. But this is how I survive. This is how I make it home able to help instead of just another burden.

Whether he heard me or not, I'd never know. But saying it helped somehow. Made the guilt a little lighter, the choice a little easier to bear.

Tomorrow I'd point my horse west and start riding toward mountains and prairie and a future I couldn't see. But eventually—somehow, someway—that road would curve back south and east and home.

I had to believe that. Had to hold onto it like a lifeline in a flood.

Because without that belief, without that destination fixed in my mind, I was just another lost soul wandering a continent too big to understand, looking for something I'd never find.

Dawn broke clear and cool, the kind of morning that makes you believe anything is possible.

We led our horses through streets just beginning to wake—shopkeepers opening shutters, delivery wagons starting their rounds, the smell of bread baking somewhere close by. Nobody paid us much attention. Just four more travelers in a city where people came and went like tides.

At the city limits, where the cobblestones gave way to packed dirt road, William pulled up his horse and looked back.

"Goodbye, New York," he said quietly.

"Goodbye," Joseph echoed.

Tiny and I said nothing. We'd already said our goodbyes—to prison, to the army, to the war. This was just another mile on a road that had been going on for years.

I touched Rusty's sides with my heels, felt him step forward willing and smooth. Behind us, the others fell into line—Tiny on Smoke, William and Joseph on their chestnuts, the pack mules bringing up the rear.

West, then. Toward the mountains and the prairie and whatever lay beyond.

Toward Winter Quarters and Salt Lake and four months of hard traveling.

And after that—if God was willing and the road was kind—toward home.

The sun climbed higher as we rode. The city fell behind. And somewhere ahead, past more miles than I could count, Emma waited and Ma grieved and Pa held things together.

I'd get back to them. Somehow..... I had to.